dreaming-of-tae

[dreaming-of-tae]

𓂃 . 𐑞 They Overhear Your Family Telling You To Break Up With Them ⟢

ꔫ﹒genre﹒⟢ - boyfriend scenarios/romance/drama. gn!reader

⏆﹒⿻ ch . bangchan . leeknow . changbin . hyunjin . han . felix . seungmin . i.n

��◞◟﹚﹒warnings ﹒ Emotional distress . Parental conflict . Themes of public life .

Sypnosis: When they visit their partner’s family to prepare for an engagement announcement, they overhear her parents quietly urging a breakup—worried that a life in the spotlight will only bring pain. Heartbroken but understanding, they step back to reflect, choosing patience over pride.

Bang Chan (방찬)

The soft hum of Sydney’s early evening rain created a rhythm on the windows of your childhood home. The living room was dimly lit, just the golden light of a lamp flickering on the side table. You and Bang Chan were curled up on the couch after dinner, sharing a blanket and a quiet moment, your legs tangled, your fingers loosely interlocked. The weekend had been meant for celebration — your engagement announcement was coming soon, and this trip home was supposed to be your way of gently preparing your family.

But something was off.

Your parents had asked Chan to help dry the dishes earlier, and while he was away, you'd noticed their whispered tones shift. Now, as you excused yourself to grab something from the upstairs bedroom, Chan made his way toward the hallway — and that’s when it happened.

He paused at the base of the stairs, hearing your parents' hushed voices trickling through the cracked kitchen door.

"They're serious. It's not just a phase anymore." "Exactly. I like him — we both do. But… this is the real world. Their life with him means living in the spotlight, constant travel, fan scrutiny, maybe even danger. That’s not the life we wanted for our child." "They’re in love, sure. But love isn’t always enough. Sometimes, protecting someone means stepping back before they get hurt."

The words weren’t harsh — but they were heavy, soaked in fear and quiet desperation. Chan’s breath caught.

He stood frozen, half in the light, half in the shadows, like something torn between two worlds. The pang in his chest wasn’t just pain — it was the crack of doubt threading through a heart that had tried so hard to earn a place in your world.

He didn’t barge in. He didn’t defend himself. That wasn’t his way.

Instead, he walked softly out the back sliding door, letting the rain mist his hair. He sat on the edge of the wooden porch, elbows on his knees, head down.

You found him there fifteen minutes later. His silhouette was calm, but still — like someone sculpted from stone. The rain clung to his lashes. He didn’t turn when you approached, but when you wrapped your arms around his shoulders from behind, he leaned into you.

"Did something happen?" you asked quietly, already knowing. He didn’t speak for a long moment. Just inhaled deeply.

"I heard them," he finally said. His voice was low — steady, but only just. "They’re scared. Of what being with me might do to you. I get it. I would be too." Your hands gripped the front of his hoodie. "Chris—"

"I mean it." He turned slightly, enough for you to see the weight in his eyes. "I drag you into a world that’s brutal. It's constant noise, cameras, rumors, schedules... It’s hard to protect someone in that storm. And you deserve to be safe. To be free."

"But I chose you," you said firmly. "And I knew what your world was before I ever fell into it. I don’t want safe. I want real. I want you." His hand came up to your cheek. He smiled, but it trembled. "Even if it tears your family in two?"

You rested your forehead to his. "No. But even if they’re afraid… I want them to know I’m not. And I think, deep down, they’re not against you — they’re scared for me. That’s love, too. It just looks different."

The rain thickened, but neither of you moved. Bang Chan pulled you into his lap then, wrapping his arms tightly around your waist, like he was anchoring himself to this moment. His voice was a whisper, breath warm on your skin.

"I would never hurt you. You know that, right?"

You nodded. "And I know you’d let me go before you ever became the reason I got hurt. But you’re not. You're the reason I got stronger."

He closed his eyes, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

"I’ll earn them," he murmured. "If they’re worried, I’ll show them who I am. I won’t walk away — not unless you ask me to. But I’ll be patient. I’ll be the man they can trust with you."

Lee Know (리노)

The sky over your hometown was quiet, washed in soft evening gray. It had been a long day — full of smiles, small talk over dinner, and the kind of tense energy that only surfaces when something unspoken floats.

You and Minho had been together for nearly four years. The kind of love that moved slowly but deeply — like water over stone. You knew him: the way he’d rub your thumb when he was nervous, how he always made your tea exactly right without asking, how he’d listen — really listen — when you spoke, like every word mattered.

This trip was supposed to be a gentle reveal. Something soft, calm — to show your parents that the man they knew mostly through FaceTime and news articles was real, grounded, and utterly devoted to you.

But something was off.

After dinner, Minho excused himself to help wash the dishes. You stepped outside to answer a call. That’s when he heard it — the low murmur of your parents’ voices, just barely audible through the hallway walls.

"We can’t just sit by and let this happen. She’s about to marry into a life we don’t understand — a life that isn’t hers." "She loves him. But love doesn’t mean it's right. He’s constantly traveling, exposed to so much. There’s danger in that life — the mental toll, the public scrutiny. She’ll be swallowed whole." "We should’ve said something earlier. We have to protect her — even if she hates us for it."

He stood still.

The sponge in his hand dripped quietly into the sink. He didn’t move. His breath caught in his throat — not from shock, but from the sharp, slow ache of inevitability. He wasn’t surprised. But it didn’t hurt any less.

He didn’t confront them. He didn’t defend himself. Instead, he walked out to the edge of the garden, where the overgrown roses curled around the trellis, and sat down on the stone bench. Hands in his lap. Eyes on the gravel.

When you found him, his back was turned to you, posture straight, too still to be casual. You called his name softly. He looked over his shoulder with that unreadable expression he wore like armor — the kind that made you feel like he was miles away even when he was right in front of you.

You sat beside him, brushing your knee against his. “You heard, didn’t you?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked down at his hands, clasped tightly together.

“I didn’t mean to,” he finally said. “But yeah. I heard.”

You swallowed hard. The air between you filled with tension and tenderness all at once. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. They’re not wrong.”

You turned to him, startled. “What?”

He exhaled, slow and heavy. “They’re not wrong to be scared. Loving me means signing up for… chaos. Distance. Cameras in your face. People picking you apart. I live in two different worlds and barely hold them together myself. You’d have to carry all that — without ever asking for it.”

His voice never broke. It didn’t crack. It was just quiet. Controlled. Like he’d already fought this battle in his mind a hundred times and lost every single one. You shook your head. “I’m not scared of that. I’m scared of not choosing you.”

He looked at you then — really looked. And something flickered behind his eyes, something fragile and raw. “You shouldn’t have to fight for me,” he said, voice low. “You shouldn’t have to stand between the people who raised you and the person you love. That’s not fair to you.”

“Then don’t make me choose,” you whispered.

He blinked, and for a long moment, he didn’t speak. Then he turned slightly, his thigh pressing against yours, his eyes glinting with that quiet intensity only Minho carried. “I won’t leave you,” he said. “Even if they never understand. Even if I have to stand on the edge of your life — I’ll be there. I’ll earn their trust with time. But I will never ask you to break your family to love me.”

A tear slipped down your cheek. He wiped it with the back of his knuckle — soft, instinctive, reverent.

Later that night, he returned to the kitchen. The same place he’d heard his heart shatter only hours earlier. Your parents were there, lingering over mugs of tea. They looked up as he stepped in, his expression unreadable but not hostile.

“I want to be honest with you,” he said. No preamble. Just truth. “I heard what you said. I understand why you’re afraid. And I don’t blame you.”

Your mother’s mouth opened, but he held up a hand gently.

“I can’t promise I’ll always keep her safe from the world. But I can promise I’ll never stop trying. And I will never use her love as a shield to excuse anything. If I fail her, I want you to be the first to hold me accountable.”

Changbin (창빈)

The late autumn wind swept across your parents' backyard, rustling the brittle gold leaves that had gathered at the edge of the stone path. Inside the house, warm light spilled through the windows, laughter from dinner still lingering in the air, though Changbin had grown quiet.

You’d come home together for a long weekend — a soft introduction before announcing the engagement you both had been talking about for months. Changbin had practiced what to say to your father three times on the plane. He even brought a small gift for your mother — a delicate ceramic she’d once admired when visiting Korea. His nerves had been well-hidden behind warm smiles and polite jokes, but you knew him. You knew his heart beat harder when things really mattered.

That night, after dinner, you’d gone upstairs to grab an old photo album. Changbin stayed behind to help clear the plates. It was while he passed the hallway to the laundry room, carrying a stack of napkins, that he heard it. The voices.

Your parents were in the study. The door was open just an inch.

"She’s serious about him." "I know. That’s what worries me." "He seems like a good person — but that life? It’s loud. It’s unstable. How long can a relationship survive when you’re apart for months, when thousands of strangers think they own him?" "She’s our daughter. We’ve seen her hurt before. We can’t sit by and watch her walk straight into a fire."

He froze.

Not out of anger. Not out of fear.

But because the words sounded too much like ones he had whispered to himself at 3 a.m. on sleepless nights — wondering the exact same things. Not about you. Never about your love. But about whether he was enough to protect you from the storm his world came with.

He backed away quietly and stepped outside. The air was sharp, cold, but it helped settle the burn behind his eyes.

He sat on the edge of the porch, head lowered, forearms resting on his knees. He didn't cry — not then. But his heart ached in that deep, invisible way that left your chest hollow. He hadn’t even noticed you standing behind him until your hand slid over his shoulder.

“Changbin?”

He looked up slowly, eyes glassy under the dim porch light.

“You heard them,” you said, not as a question.

He gave a tight nod.

You moved to sit beside him, pulling your cardigan tighter around your arms. “I’m sorry.” He shook his head. “Don’t be. They’re your parents. They love you. They’re scared, and… I can’t blame them.”

He looked out at the yard, his jaw clenched. “I mean, they’re not wrong. This life I live — it’s not quiet. It’s not easy. You know what it’s like. The missed calls. The canceled dates. The rumors. The girls who scream my name like they know me better than you do.”

“Stop,” you whispered, eyes stinging. “Don’t talk like that.”

“I’m not giving up,” he said quickly, turning to you. “Don’t think that. I’m just— I don’t want to be the reason your family worries every time they look at you. I don’t want your parents to wonder if loving me means losing you.”

You reached for his hand, and he gripped it like he needed it to breathe. “I chose you, Binnie. I keep choosing you. You don’t have to prove you’re enough — you already are.”

He stared down at your intertwined hands for a moment. He didn’t answer. Just leaned into you, forehead pressed to your shoulder, letting the silence hold him where words couldn’t.

Hyunjin (현진)

The sun had long since dipped beneath the horizon, leaving a dim lavender haze across your neighborhood. The house smelled like roasted garlic and rain-soaked leaves — warm, familiar, nostalgic. You and Hyunjin were staying at your parents’ for the weekend. A small visit. Casual on the surface, but meant to gently ease into the conversation of your quiet engagement. The rings weren’t on fingers yet, but the promise was real, already burning beneath your skin like a shared secret.

He’d been nervous. You could see it in the way he straightened his shirt three times before knocking on your parents’ front door. In the way he barely touched his food at dinner, offering his compliments with a soft smile even though he was chewing slower than usual. He was trying — really trying — to be everything he thought they needed him to be. Not because he was fake. But because he cared.

After dinner, you were in the guest room folding up old laundry, humming to yourself. Hyunjin had wandered into the hallway, searching for the bathroom. He passed the den and slowed when he heard your name.

He wouldn’t have stopped if it had been anything else.

"She’s serious about him. She’s talking like this is forever." "That’s what worries me." "He’s… nice. Charming, polite, clearly cares about her. But he’s not just a boy. He’s an idol. His world — it’s not made for someone like her." "She’s sensitive. She hides it, but we know her. What happens when the spotlight turns cruel? When she starts feeling second place to millions of fans, or worse, when they start to hate her?" "We should ask her to reconsider. Not because we don’t like him — but because we love her."

The words were spoken softly. Gently, even. But they struck Hyunjin like frostbite — quiet, cold, seeping beneath his skin before he could feel the pain. His breath caught in his chest. He backed away before he heard more. His fingers trembled slightly at his sides.

He found the guest room, but you weren’t there. So he slipped out into the backyard, under the heavy dark sky that smelled like wet earth and pine. A garden lantern buzzed quietly nearby. He sat on the patio steps and pressed his hands into his lap, willing himself not to unravel.

You found him there ten minutes later, his back to you, shoulders hunched ever so slightly. “Jinnie?” you asked gently. He looked up. His face wasn’t tear-streaked, but his eyes gave him away. Glazed. Wide. Wounded. “I heard them,” he said simply.

You sat down beside him slowly. “What did they say?” He hesitated, looking up at the stars. “That I’m not safe for you,” he murmured. “That I come with shadows too big for you to walk through.”

You didn’t speak for a moment. Your heart was aching — not just for what was said, but for how deeply he was letting it in. “They’re scared,” you whispered.

“I know.” His voice was quiet, careful. “And… I don’t blame them.” He tilted his head toward you, finally meeting your gaze. “Sometimes I think about it too,” he admitted. “How hard it must be. To love someone who disappears on planes. Who’s always a little bit out there. Who’s constantly pulled away by things you can’t follow.”

“You’re not out there to me,” you said. “You’re here. You always are.”

He smiled faintly. A sad smile. The kind that doesn’t quite reach the eyes. “But what if I can’t protect you from everything? From the hate? The comments? The long nights? The loneliness when I'm gone for weeks?” His hands clenched slightly. “What if they’re right?”

You took his hand — warm and shaky. “Then let me make this choice,” you said. “Let me walk beside you even when it’s raining. Let me be brave with you.”

A tear slid down his cheek then, slow and silent. He blinked fast, embarrassed, and turned his head away, but you reached up and gently cupped his jaw, guiding his face back toward you.

He let out a soft breath. The kind that carried weeks’ worth of tension. Then, quietly: “I don’t want them to hate me.”

“They don’t,” you whispered. “They just haven’t seen what I see yet.”

Han (한)

The evening felt perfect on the surface — a dinner at your home, warm lights, familiar laughter, and the subtle glow of light brushing against the windows. Han Jisung was sitting beside you at the table, quietly fidgeting with his sleeve, his nerves buried just beneath his soft smiles and quick jokes.

Your parents liked him — at least, they said they did. They welcomed him in with polite kindness and thoughtful questions. But there was something in the air tonight.

You left the table to grab a few old albums, wanting to show him your high school photos — your way of giving him more of your world. He stayed behind to help your mom clear the dishes.

That’s when he heard them. He hadn’t meant to.

He was headed back from the kitchen, intending to grab his jacket, when he passed by the hallway leading to your dad’s study. The door was ajar. The voices — your parents' — came low, serious, full of hesitation.

"She loves him, that’s obvious. But that doesn’t mean this is safe for her." "Exactly. He’s kind, yes. But he’s in the spotlight. His life is… chaotic. Fleeting. She needs stability. Something real." "They’re already talking about marriage. I don’t think she sees what’s ahead. How hard it will be. How much it could cost her." "It’s not that we don’t like him. It’s just… this isn’t a love built in peace. It’s built in fire. And she doesn’t deserve to burn.”

The words landed like punches in his gut.

He didn’t move. Not at first. He felt suspended — held in place by disbelief, and a quiet ache that began curling in his chest. Not anger. Not even defensiveness. Just… pain. A sharp, sudden sadness that hollowed him out like a winter wind.

He backed away from the doorway like it was something burning. Then quietly slipped out the back door onto the porch.

The sky had turned deep gray, heavy with the promise of rain. He sat down on the wooden steps, the old ones creaking softly beneath him, elbows on his knees, fingers trembling slightly.

He’d always feared this part. Not you — not your love. But the idea that he’d never be enough for the world you came from. You found him there a few minutes later. You could tell something was wrong by the way he was sitting: too still, too quiet, his usually expressive face unreadable.

“Jisung?” you asked softly, easing down beside him. He glanced at you and gave a smile so faint it almost hurt to see. “I didn’t mean to listen,” he said. “But I did.”

You didn’t have to ask. You knew. “They’re just scared,” you said carefully. “They don’t know you like I do.”

“I know,” he whispered. His voice cracked a little. “But that doesn’t make it hurt less.” He paused, pulling at a loose thread on his sweater.

“They think this is going to destroy you,” he added. “That being with me… means you’ll end up heartbroken. Or worse, forgotten.”

You reached for his hand, but he kept staring forward.

“I’ve always known I came with baggage,” he said. “The late nights. The tours. The fans who love me without even knowing me. The ones who hate you without even seeing you.” His throat tightened. “I’ve tried to tell myself I deserve this. That I deserve you. But maybe… maybe they’re right. Maybe I love you too much to let you be hurt by all this.”

You turned toward him, tears springing into your eyes. “Don’t say that.”

“But I feel it,” he whispered. “Every time someone online says your name like it’s a sin. Every time I have to cancel plans. Every time you smile and tell me it’s okay, but I see how tired you look.” He looked down, blinking hard.

“I’m so scared, babe. That loving me is going to cost you more than it gives.”

You placed your hand over his chest, right where his heart thudded too fast. “You loving me,” you said gently, “has only ever made me feel seen. Safe. Wanted. There is nothing in this world I want more than to face all of that — the noise, the distance, the chaos — with you.”

He broke then. A single tear slipped down his cheek, and he finally turned toward you, burying his face in your shoulder. “I just wish they could see me the way you do,” he murmured.

“They will,” you whispered, running your fingers through his hair. “Eventually. But until then… we show them. Not by proving anything. Just by being us.”

Felix (필릭스)

It was the kind of evening you thought would be simple — one meant for comfort, warmth, and gentle blending. The house you grew up in smelled of home: wood polish, your dad’s aftershave, and whatever your mom had cooked that left the walls holding onto spice and warmth. Felix had been quiet all day — not in a bad way, just observant, carefully watching every nuance in your parents’ expressions, every shift in tone, like he was memorizing how to be perfect in their eyes.

He wanted them to love him. Not for his name, or for who he was to the world, but for who he was to you.

Dinner had gone smoothly enough. Smiles, stories, a few awkward laughs that Felix soothed with gentle charm. Afterward, you disappeared upstairs to grab something — a photo album you wanted to show him. Something small. Sentimental.

That’s when it happened.

Felix was in the hallway, tracing his fingers along the framed pictures of you as a child, when he paused just outside the den. The door wasn’t fully closed. Voices leaked through — soft, but serious. Familiar. Your parents. He would have walked away. He really would have. But then he heard your name.

“She says they’re talking about marriage.” “So soon. Too soon. It’s love, yes… but is it stable?” “He seems sweet. Caring. But his life is so far from hers. It’s not normal. It’s not quiet. There will be cameras. Fans. Rumors. Hate.” “She’s our daughter. We know her. She needs a world that feels safe. Grounded. Not one that spins constantly. Not one where she has to share him with millions.” “Maybe it’s time to be honest with her. Before she goes too far. Before her heart ends up somewhere it can’t come back from.”

The words didn’t come with malice. They were soft. Protective. But they still landed with the weight of a thousand doubts. Felix felt the wind knocked out of him.

He stepped back, gently, as if walking too hard might crack the moment in two. His hands trembled as he gripped the edge of the hallway wall, grounding himself in its rough paint texture. His chest ached. Not with anger. But with something heavier — grief for something still intact.

He stepped outside, through the back door, onto the small patio overlooking your mother’s garden. The sky had turned deep blue, the first stars barely beginning to flicker through. The air smelled like damp grass and lavender.

He sat on the steps, elbows on his knees, staring at the horizon like it could answer the question he hadn’t even formed yet. You found him like that — silent, still, lit only by the porch light and the moon above. “Lix?” you asked gently. “Everything okay?”

He turned to you, slowly, and you saw it instantly. The hurt in his eyes. The kind that he didn’t know how to hide, even if he tried. He looked down. Then, barely above a whisper, “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.” Your breath caught.

He continued, voice trembling slightly, “They… they don’t want this, do they? Us.”

You sat down beside him, heart hammering. “They’re scared,” you said. “Not because of you. Because they love me. And they don’t understand the kind of life we live.”

Felix let out a soft laugh — but it wasn’t amused. More like something caught in his throat. “I’m used to people not understanding me. My career. My world. But hearing it from them? From your family?”

He shook his head, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I didn’t think it would hurt this much.”

You reached over, gently tugging his hands away. “It’s not about who you are. It’s about what they don’t know. They’ve never seen the nights you stay up just to make sure I’m okay. Or how you write me letters when you’re away. Or the way you love — quietly, deeply, like it’s the only thing that matters.”

He looked at you, eyes shining now, reflecting porch light and tears he hadn’t let fall.

“I don’t want to be the reason they lose you,” he said. “I couldn’t live with that.”

“You’re not,” you said, voice firm now. “They’re not asking me to choose. Not really. They’re just… afraid of things they don’t see. And I���m going to show them. We are.”

You took his hand and placed it against your chest, where your heartbeat was fast and steady.

“You feel that? That’s what you do to me. Not fear. Not chaos. You ground me.” He didn’t speak, just leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours.

Seungmin (승민)

It was a cool, late spring evening, and the sun was just beginning to dip behind the horizon, casting a warm orange glow across your small apartment. You and Seungmin were in the kitchen, cooking dinner together. The scent of roasted garlic and fresh basil filled the air as you laughed over a shared inside joke about how Seungmin’s chopping skills were so meticulous they could rival a professional chef’s.

Seungmin, dressed in a simple black T-shirt and soft gray sweatpants, looked effortlessly handsome, his warm smile lighting up the kitchen even more than the overhead lights. His hand reached for yours every few moments, brushing against your fingers in a silent promise of affection.

The two of you were in that sweet, comfortable phase of a relationship where every glance felt reassuring, every touch felt electric. You’d been together for a while, and both of you had begun talking seriously about the future—moving in, getting engaged, maybe even starting a family one day.

As you stirred the sauce on the stove, Seungmin wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder. “You’re so pretty when you cook,” he murmured, and your heart fluttered in your chest. But before you could respond, you heard the faint sound of your parents’ voices drifting in from the living room.

You paused, spoon in midair, and frowned slightly. “What are they talking about?” you whispered.

Seungmin, sensing your sudden tension, loosened his hold a little but didn’t let go. He tilted his head to listen, and together you strained to make out their words.

“We’re just worried,” your father said, his tone laced with concern. “Seungmin’s life is so public, always in the spotlight. It’s not normal, and we’re scared for them.”

Your mother’s voice joined in, soft but trembling. “They’ll get hurt. Fans, the media… it’s too much. They need someone who can give them a quiet life, not this constant attention.”

Your breath caught in your throat. Seungmin’s arms tightened slightly around you as if he felt your heart break in real time. His lips parted, but he stayed silent, processing the words as carefully as he did everything else in life.

You turned to face him, searching his eyes. Seungmin’s dark eyes, usually so warm and lively, had gone still, as if he was absorbing every syllable of doubt and fear your parents voiced. His brows furrowed, and for a long moment, he didn’t speak.

Then, with a deep breath, he pressed his forehead to yours. “Hey,” he whispered, his voice almost impossibly gentle. “Look at me. I’m right here, okay?”

You nodded, tears brimming in your eyes. “I didn’t know they felt like this…”

He took your hands in his, thumbs brushing over your knuckles as if trying to erase the sting of their words. “I did,” he admitted softly. “I’ve… I’ve always known it could be hard for them. For you. But I hoped—no, I believed—that love would be enough to make them see how real this is.”

His shoulders slumped a little, a rare crack in the usual confidence he carried so easily. “I’m sorry they’re scared. I wish I could promise them that everything will be perfect, that I can protect you from everything. But I can’t promise perfection.”

He paused, taking a shaky breath, and you could see the weight of it all in his eyes—his career, the scrutiny, the endless push and pull of idol life. But there was something else there, too, something unwavering.

“I can promise you this, though,” he continued, his voice growing firmer. “I love you. I’m not going to let anyone—no matter how much they care about you—tell us that what we have isn’t worth fighting for.”

A tear slipped down your cheek, and Seungmin reached up to wipe it away with his thumb. “You’re my home,” he whispered. “No matter what they say, that doesn’t change.”

You reached up to cup his face, your hands trembling. “And you’re mine,” you said, your voice thick with emotion. “I want this, Seungmin. I want you.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply as if to steady himself. When he opened them again, there was a quiet fire in them. “Then we’ll show them. We’ll show them that this love isn’t fragile. It’s real, and it’s ours.”

The two of you stood there in the warm kitchen, the sauce simmering forgotten on the stove, holding each other close. The murmur of your parents’ conversation faded into the background as you and Seungmin pressed your foreheads together, sharing a moment of silent resolve.

You knew the road ahead wouldn’t be easy. Your parents’ fears weren’t unfounded—Seungmin’s world was bright, loud, and often overwhelming. But standing there in his arms, you felt something stronger than fear. You felt hope.

I.N (아이엔)

It was a quiet Sunday afternoon, and the golden rays of late spring sun filtered through the gauzy curtains of your living room. You and Jeongin were lounging on the couch, your legs tangled under a soft knit blanket. His head was in your lap, his dark brown hair fanned out like a halo, and you were absently running your fingers through it, feeling the silky strands slip through your fingers. Jeongin had always had a calming presence—a gentle warmth that felt like home. You’d been together for a couple of years now, and your relationship was moving towards something permanent, something beautifully real. Talks of marriage had started to pepper your late-night conversations—shared dreams of a cozy home, laughter-filled mornings, and a life built on the love you’d cultivated so carefully. But that afternoon, as the comforting murmur of a soft indie playlist played in the background, you heard voices drifting in from the kitchen—your parents. You hadn’t realized they’d come back early from their walk. You tensed instinctively, and Jeongin, ever so attuned to your moods, tilted his head back to glance up at you. “What’s wrong?” he asked softly, his dark eyes full of gentle curiosity.

You didn’t answer right away, your ears straining to catch the words that were slowly unraveling your heart. “—I know they love each other,” your mother’s voice floated through the doorway. “But his world… it’s too much. The constant traveling, the fans, the pressure. It’s not the kind of life I imagined for them.” Your father’s voice joined in, laced with a deep, protective concern. “We just want them to have a peaceful, simple life. Not one where they’re always in the shadows of the spotlight, where their every move could be twisted into gossip.” You felt the blood drain from your face, your hand stilling in Jeongin’s hair. He sat up slowly, his expression shifting from confusion to concern. His hand came to rest on your thigh, grounding you. “They’re talking about us,” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath. Jeongin’s eyes darkened with understanding, and he reached up to brush a strand of hair from your face, his touch as tender as always. “What are they saying?” he asked, his voice quiet, careful. You swallowed, blinking back the sting of tears. “They’re… they’re scared for me. They think we should break up because they think your life is too overwhelming, too dangerous for me.” For a moment, silence settled between you like a heavy fog. Jeongin’s fingers tightened just slightly on your thigh, his jaw working as he processed the words. Then he took a slow, deep breath, exhaling through his nose. “I’m sorry,” he said softly, his voice threaded with a sorrowful gravity. “I never wanted them to feel that way. Or for you to have to choose between me and your family’s peace of mind.” He paused, his brows furrowed in thought, then looked back at you with a depth in his gaze that took your breath away. “I know my world is… different. Loud, unpredictable. And I know it’s not what they dreamed of for you. But I also know that I love you. More than I’ve ever loved anything in my life.” He took your hands in his, his thumbs brushing over your knuckles as if he could soothe the ache in your chest with those gentle caresses. “You’re the best part of my world,” he continued, his voice growing steadier. “You make it brighter, calmer—like I can breathe even when everything else is spinning around me.” Your throat tightened, a tear slipping free down your cheek. Jeongin reached up to wipe it away with the pad of his thumb, his touch feather-light. “I want to be the person who makes you feel safe and loved, not someone who adds to your worries.”

[dreaming-of-tae]

𓂃 . 𐑞 "Get On The Bed" Prank On Them ⟡

ꔫ﹒genre﹒⟢ - romance/fluff/comedy. f!reader

⏆﹒⿻ ch . bangchan . leeknow . changbin . hyunjin . han . felix . seungmin . i.n

﹙◞◟﹚﹒warnings ﹒Mild Suggestiveness . Romantic Themes . Mild-Language

Bang Chan (방찬)

It had been a cozy, quiet evening. Chan was sprawled out on the couch, laptop open, headphones slightly askew as he worked on a track, mouthing along to the beat. You’d been waiting for the right moment to test your little prank, and now—he looked so focused—it was perfect.

You walked over casually and leaned in just enough for him to notice. When he looked up at you with a smile, you tilted your head and, with a playful lilt, whispered, “Get on the bed.”

He blinked. Once. Twice.

“…W-what?” he stammered, pulling off his headphones so fast they nearly snapped back into place. “Did you just…?”

You nodded, keeping a straight face.

Chan’s ears flushed instantly. “Uhm—should I—uh—wait, are you serious?” He looked around like the walls were suddenly sentient witnesses to his confusion. “Like...now?”

You could see the gears in his head turning at high speed—wondering if this was a signal, a joke, or something more serious. He even stood up halfway, brushing invisible dust from his shirt, his face a mix of shock, amusement, and bashful hope.

But the moment you cracked a smile, he froze. “Wait a second...are you—are you pranking me?!”

You burst out laughing, and he groaned, hiding his red face behind both hands before collapsing back onto the couch. “You’re evil,” he muttered, a shy grin tugging at his lips. “You can’t say stuff like that so casually—do you want me to lose sleep tonight?”

But for the rest of the night, he kept sneaking glances at you, his smirk lingering—clearly, the prank had left an impression.

Lee Know (리노)

You knew Lee Know was sharp. Hard to fool. But that didn’t mean you wouldn’t try.

He was in the kitchen finishing a snack when you leaned on the doorway, arms folded, and casually said, “Get on the bed.”

He turned slowly, a brow raised. “Excuse me?”

“Get on the bed,” you repeated coolly, giving nothing away.

He narrowed his eyes. “Why? Did you change the sheets or something?”

You didn’t answer.

Lee Know took a step toward you, licking his lips in thought. “Wait…” he said slowly, eyes scanning your expression like a detective. “You never say stuff like that unless you’re up to something.”

You shrugged.

“Is this one of those TikTok pranks?” he asked, amused. “Are you recording me? Where’s the camera?”

Still, you held your poker face.

That’s when a sly smile curved his lips. “You know, if you want me in bed, all you have to do is ask nicely.” He winked, walking closer. “No need for vague commands.”

You burst out laughing, and he snorted. “Yeah, thought so. You’re a terrible liar.”

Then he leaned down, placing his hands on either side of your shoulders against the wall. “Just know…you’re playing a dangerous game, baby.”

You gulped—and realized you’d started the prank, but he might just finish it.

Changbin (창빈)

You found him in the studio corner of the apartment, scribbling lyrics and mouthing beats. His glasses were sliding down his nose slightly, and he looked deep in the zone. Perfect timing.

“Hey,” you said sweetly, leaning on the wall. “Get on the bed.”

He paused, pen midair. “Huh?”

You nodded. “Now.”

He blinked. “Wait. Why?” He stood slowly, frowning. “Are you okay? Do you need to talk about something? Did I forget something important? Is it—wait, did I mess up a date? Your birthday’s not today, right?!”

You had to bite your lip to keep from laughing.

“Wait—should I bring snacks? Or like…is this about a massage? Did you hurt your back?” He was now spiraling into a full-on theory board of reasons why you might want him on the bed. “Or—is this, like, code for something?”

You finally laughed, clutching your stomach.

He squinted. “No… Don’t tell me this was a prank. Are you serious?”

You nodded through your giggles.

“I WAS READY TO APOLOGIZE FOR STUFF I DIDN’T EVEN DO,” he yelled dramatically, throwing his hands up. But then he grinned, eyes twinkling. “You got me good… Next time, I’m turning the tables.”

Hyunjin (현진)

Hyunjin was mid-selfie when you waltzed in. You caught your reflection in the mirror behind him—him pouting, perfect angles, glowing skin. You loved how into himself he could get, and now you were about to ruin it (in the best way).

“Get on the bed,” you said, standing tall.

He dropped his phone like you’d just cast a spell.

“…Is this a dream?” he asked, placing a hand to his chest dramatically. “Did I just hear my beautiful girlfriend—the love of my life—tell me to get on the bed?”

You nodded solemnly.

“Oh my God,” he gasped, looking toward the ceiling. “Thank you, universe. My time has come.”

Then, without skipping a beat, he threw himself onto the bed in a theatrical flop, arms wide like he was in a telenovela. “I’m ready! Take me!”

You couldn’t contain your laughter. He peeked up, suspicious now. “Wait…are you laughing? Is this a joke?!”

You nodded through the laughter.

He sat up with an over-the-top glare. “You devil,” he hissed, pointing dramatically. “How dare you toy with my heart like that.”

But then he giggled and pulled you into bed with him anyway. “Fine. We’re both staying here now. Prank or not.”

Han (한)

It was a quiet, late afternoon in your shared apartment, rain tapping against the windows like a soft lullaby. You and Han had spent the day lounging in pajamas, binge-watching anime, stealing snacks, and laughing about nothing in particular. He was now sprawled out on the couch, hoodie half over his head, a bag of chips clutched to his chest.

You stood up, stretched, and glanced at him with a mischievous smirk. “Babe,” you called softly, your voice low and suggestive, “come get on the bed.”

Han’s head snapped up so fast you thought he might’ve hurt his neck. His wide eyes blinked at you in disbelief, a chip falling from his mouth mid-chew.

“Huh?? What?” he asked, half-gasping, clearly not trusting his ears.

You bit your lip to hold back your laughter. “You heard me. Bed. Now.”

A moment of silence. Then his brain combusted.

“Oh my god, wait, wait—hold up,” he stammered, practically throwing the chips aside and scrambling to his feet. “You’re serious?! Like serious serious?!"

You didn’t answer. Instead, you turned and sauntered toward the bedroom, giving him just enough reason to follow.

Han trailed behind, his hands in the air like he was surrendering to fate. “Wait, babe, I didn’t shower yet! Should I—? Should I light candles? Do I need to… should I bring water or something?!” His voice cracked in that signature Han-way, half-excited, half-overthinking.

The moment he stepped into the room, you turned to face him, a completely straight face. “Okay,” you said, nodding solemnly. “Now lie down. Face down. We’re doing... tax paperwork.”

The confusion on his face was pure art.

“What? Bro, WHAT?” he exclaimed, hands dramatically slapping his thighs. “I was mentally preparing for the Olympics! You’re telling me we’re doing taxes?!”

You broke into laughter as he dramatically flopped onto the bed like a starfish. “Unbelievable. My heart rate hit 130 for forms and deductions?!”

He pouted for a good five minutes, but later admitted it was a pretty good prank—especially after you kissed his cheek and promised to “make it up to him” with cuddles and a massage.

Felix (필릭스)

The golden hour sun poured into the apartment, casting warm hues across the walls. Felix had just finished baking cookies and the scent of chocolate still lingered in the air. He had that soft, relaxed look on his face—the kind that made your heart flutter.

You were sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling through your phone when the idea popped into your head. “Lixie,” you called out sweetly.

He peeked in from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. “Yeah, baby?”

You locked eyes with him and tilted your head innocently. “Come here… get on the bed.”

For a second, he just stood there, blinking. Then his ears tinged pink, and he smiled—slow and slightly dazed. “You want me to… right now?” he asked, his voice dipping into that soft, deep register.

You nodded slowly. “Right now.”

He carefully placed the towel down and walked toward you, his movements graceful but slightly hesitant. You could see the wheels turning in his mind—Felix, ever the gentleman, was trying to read the room just in case he misinterpreted your tone.

“I mean… we can,” he said, voice low, “if you’re in the mood. You sure you’re okay?”

You had to bite your lip to keep from laughing. He was just so tender about it.

When he finally got to the bed, he sat down beside you, waiting for your lead. And then you handed him… a Rubik’s Cube.

“Time me,” you said seriously. “I bet I can beat your record.”

Felix stared at the cube, then at you, then burst into a soft giggle. “Oh my god, you brat,” he laughed, burying his face into your shoulder. “You tricked me!”

You both ended up lying on the bed anyway—laughing, tangled in blankets, solving the Rubik’s Cube together and sharing stolen kisses between turns.

Seungmin (승민)

Seungmin was sitting cross-legged on the floor, headphones on, editing a vlog for STAY. He had that slightly furrowed, focused look on his face, occasionally muttering to himself as he cut and trimmed footage.

You leaned against the doorway, watching him, then decided it was the perfect time to cause trouble.

“Seungminnie,” you purred. “Come get on the bed.”

He paused his music, pulled one earphone out, and turned slowly. His eyebrow lifted with suspicion. “Why?” he asked dryly, voice laced with his usual sarcasm. “Are you going to steal my hoodie again?”

You gave him your best doe eyes. “Just come here.”

He stood up slowly, stretching, arms raised over his head as he walked toward the bed with caution.

“I swear,” he muttered, “if this is another prank where you bury me in plushies again, I’m going to file a formal complaint.”

You patted the bed beside you. “Just lie down. Trust me.”

He lay down stiffly, his body language reading: I don’t trust you at all. “Now what?”

You sat on his stomach and dramatically opened a folder. “Time for a pop quiz. Seungmin Kim, please list the chronological order of every date we’ve ever been on.”

He stared at you like you had lost your mind.

“No,” he deadpanned.

“Yes.”

“No, I refuse.”

“Yes, and if you get one wrong, you owe me boba.”

Seungmin sighed so hard it could’ve moved furniture. “This is abuse,” he said, but there was a grin forming at the corners of his mouth.

You both ended up laughing so hard you couldn’t even get through the first few questions—and he did buy you boba later, grumbling the whole time about how you “play too much.”

I.N (아이엔)

It was late evening and you and Jeongin had just finished a casual home karaoke session. He was sprawled out on the floor, arms stretched out like a starfish, hair tousled, breath still slightly uneven from belting high notes.

You patted the bed gently. “Hey, Innie,” you said softly. “Get on the bed.”

His head whipped around like a deer caught in headlights.

“Huh?! Why?!” he asked, already blushing.

You kept your expression serious. “Just do it.”

He sat up slowly, his face suspicious but obedient. “Is this a trick? Are you going to throw a pillow at me?”

“No tricks,” you said. “Promise.”

Jeongin climbed onto the bed, sitting cross-legged, eyes fixed on you like he was waiting for some kind of jump scare.

You leaned in close. “Now lie down. Completely flat. Arms at your sides.”

“Okay…” he obeyed, stiff as a board. “Now what?”

You reached over and placed a slice of cold cucumber on his forehead.

“What the—?!” he sputtered, lifting his head. “What is this?!”

“It’s spa time,” you said calmly. “You’ve been working hard. Relax.”

He let out a high-pitched laugh and covered his face. “I thought you were trying to seduce me and it’s salad ingredients?!”

You both collapsed into giggles, and eventually, he did relax—laying with his head in your lap, cucumber slices now replaced by your fingers brushing through his hair.

[dreaming-of-tae]

. ︶  ➣   ₊ How'd They React To You Wearing Short-Shorts

ꔫ﹒genre﹒⟢ - romance/fluff/comedy. f!reader

⏆﹒⿻ ch . bangchan . leeknow . changbin . hyunjin . han . felix . seungmin . i.n

﹙◞◟﹚﹒warnings ﹒ Possessiveness & Jealousy (Mild) . Objectification Awareness . Mild Sexual Tension (Implicit) . Male Gaze/Aesthetic Idealization .

Bang Chan (방찬)

It was one of those rare days off for both you and Chan, and he invited you over to the studio so you could hang out while he tidied up a few mixes. You didn’t think twice about your outfit — a cropped white tee and high-waisted short shorts — simple, comfortable, and cool in the early summer heat.

When you walked into the studio, Chan was hunched over the mixer, headphones on. He looked up, ready to flash his usual bright smile — and then he paused. His gaze lingered on your legs for just a moment too long before he pulled off his headphones and stood.

“Hey, baby,” he greeted, voice soft but a bit deeper than usual. “You look… uh, wow.”

You grinned knowingly. “Wow good or wow ‘go change right now’?”

He chuckled, pulling you in for a hug, arms resting loosely around your waist. “Wow dangerous.”

“Oh please,” you teased, looping your arms around his neck. “I’m just wearing shorts.”

“I know, I know,” he said, then leaned his forehead against yours. “You have every right to wear whatever you want. And you look amazing. But I swear if someone so much as thinks something weird, I’ll have to accidentally send their name to management.”

You laughed, but his protectiveness warmed you. He didn’t ask you to change, didn’t act controlling — just stayed close the whole day, hand casually placed on your thigh when you sat beside him on the couch, eyes flicking toward the door whenever someone passed.

Later, when you were alone in his apartment, legs draped across his lap, he whispered, “Seriously though, I’m the luckiest guy in the world… but also maybe the most stressed.”

Lee Know (리노)

You were getting ready for a movie date at home with Minho. It was hot, you were lazy, and your favorite soft short shorts were calling your name. You paired them with an oversized tee tucked just enough to show your waistline.

When you emerged from the bedroom, Minho, who had been tossing popcorn in the air for Soonie to catch, glanced up. His jaw tightened, eyes narrowing slightly.

“Hmm,” he hummed, eyes sweeping over you slowly. “Is that what you’re wearing?”

You raised an eyebrow. “It’s just us here.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

You snorted. “Jealous, Minho?”

He stood, walking toward you with that slow, confident swagger, arms crossed. “No. I’m territorial. There’s a difference.”

You laughed, but he was clearly not kidding. He tugged you gently by the belt loops of your shorts, eyes locked on yours. “These should come with a warning label,” he muttered, mock serious. “Side effects may include intense boyfriend anxiety.”

You leaned in, smug. “So should your face.”

He kissed you hard, effectively ending your sass. “Fine,” he said against your lips. “Wear them. But if I see a single camera pointed your way when we post that movie-night photo later, I’m deleting your Instagram.”

You smirked. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I absolutely would.”

Minho never stopped teasing you the rest of the night, tossing popcorn at your legs, “accidentally” resting his hand on your thigh just to distract you from the film. But his eyes were gentle, and his touch told you everything — he was proud to call you his, and he just wanted the world to know to back off.

Changbin (창빈)

You were headed to a late-night convenience store run with Changbin, a chill little errand he always turned into a mini date. You threw on your hoodie and a pair of athletic short shorts — light, comfy, not overly flashy — but when you came out of the bedroom, Changbin froze mid-sip of his protein shake.

He blinked. “You’re… really wearing those?”

You looked down. “Yeah? Why?”

He set his cup down carefully. “Because I wasn’t emotionally prepared for that level of exposure.”

You burst out laughing. “They’re not that short!”

He covered his face. “They are when you’ve got legs like yours.”

As you teased him while slipping on your sneakers, he kept glancing at your legs like they were foreign objects sent to test his moral integrity. He tried to act nonchalant, but every time someone looked your way during the errand, you saw him tense beside you.

At one point, a guy passed by a little too slowly for Changbin’s comfort. He cleared his throat loudly, then slid his arm around your waist, pulling you closer with sudden intensity.

“What’s that about?” you asked, amused.

“Just… making sure people know you’re taken,” he mumbled, cheeks burning.

Later that night, you were sitting on the couch, legs stretched over his lap, when he admitted, “I mean… you looked so good, I almost didn’t want to go out. I just wanted to stay home and stare.”

You kissed his cheek. “Maybe next time we do.”

He nodded. “Deal. But I’m still buying you sweatpants.”

Hyunjin (현진)

It was an art gallery opening downtown, and Hyunjin had invited you as his date. You wore a sleek blouse and a pair of tailored short shorts, with some sheer tights and ankle boots — a balance of classy and cool. You stepped out of the bedroom and struck a pose.

Hyunjin gasped like he’d seen a Renaissance painting come to life.

“Oh my god,” he whispered, placing a hand over his chest. “Who allowed you to look this good?”

You smirked. “You like it?”

“I don’t like it — I worship it,” he said dramatically, walking in slow circles around you like you were on display. “I’m dating a fashion goddess. People will cry. And I might cry too.”

You laughed, but he was truly captivated. His fingers traced the hem of your shorts like they were made of gold. “I swear, this outfit belongs in a museum.”

But when you got to the gallery and he saw a few heads turning — particularly one guy lingering a little too long — his smile dropped for a second.

He leaned in close, whispered, “I suddenly understand why kings used to make people avert their eyes in court.”

“Jealous?”

“Terrified,” he said. “Because you’re art, and art attracts the wrong kind of attention.”

Still, he didn’t stop showing you off, proudly holding your hand, twirling you for photos, even whispering in your ear, “Everyone’s jealous, and I love it.”

That night, you caught him sketching you from memory — in the very outfit you wore. When you asked about it, he just smiled.

“You were unforgettable,” he said softly. “I had to capture it.”

Han (한)

You were lounging around the dorms with Han, having one of those rare chill days where neither of you had schedules. The air was warm, sunlight poured in through the window, and you’d slipped on a loose tank top and a pair of denim short shorts without much thought. As you padded into the kitchen to grab some iced coffee, Han looked up from the couch and froze mid-bite of his sandwich.

His eyes widened, and his mouth hung slightly open. “Uh…” he mumbled, clearly caught off guard. His gaze flickered down to your legs, then darted back up like he was trying very hard not to stare. A blush crept up his neck and exploded across his cheeks like wildfire.

“You okay there, Jisung?” you asked, amused by his sudden stillness.

“I-I’m fine. Totally fine. Just…” He cleared his throat dramatically. “Did you always own those shorts?”

You turned around slowly, giving him a little twirl, purely to tease. “Why? Do they look bad?”

“No!” he answered way too quickly, practically leaping off the couch. “They look… I mean… they look great. Really great. Maybe too great.”

You cocked a brow. “Too great?”

He walked up to you and wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you close. “I’m just saying, maybe I should cancel our plans today and keep you here. Away from other people’s eyes.”

You rolled your eyes. “Possessive much?”

He gave you that signature grin — cocky but sheepish. “Yeah. Just a little. Can you blame me?”

And despite his flustered beginning, he didn’t stop stealing glances all day, tugging you close every time you walked by. You could tell he wasn’t mad — just utterly smitten and trying not to combust.

Felix (필릭스)

You came into the dance studio where Felix was practicing, dressed casually but comfortably: a cropped hoodie and short shorts, perfect for the warm day. He was taking a break, wiping sweat from his brow when he saw you.

His eyes lit up instantly, the signature sparkle in his gaze softening with adoration. “Hey, angel,” he said with that deep, buttery voice of his. “You look cute.”

You blushed under his warm gaze, setting down the smoothie you brought him. “Thanks. Figured I’d dress for the weather.”

He walked over, his arm sliding gently around your waist as he gave you a light kiss on the temple. But then he looked down at your legs — slender, smooth, exposed — and you saw a flicker of hesitation cross his features.

“I mean… you do look amazing,” he said slowly, as if weighing his words. “But I worry, you know? People might stare.”

You tilted your head, smiling. “Are you worried about them staring at me or me not noticing them?”

He chuckled softly. “Both.”

You leaned into his chest. “You know I only see you, right?”

He sighed, then nodded. “I know. I just… you’re important to me. I want people to see you and respect you, not just… look.”

You hugged him tightly, and he hugged you back even tighter. Though he never asked you to change, he stayed close the whole time you were out later, hand always linked with yours, like a quiet shield — gentle, respectful, but deeply protective.

Seungmin (승민)

It was Seungmin’s idea to go for a walk around the park near his apartment. It was sunny, you were feeling cute, so you threw on a breezy tee and your favorite pair of black short shorts. When he opened the door and saw you, he immediately raised an eyebrow.

“Oh wow,” he said in his trademark dry tone. “Are we going for a walk or turning this into a fashion show?”

You snorted. “What, they’re just shorts.”

“Just shorts,” he mimicked dramatically. “These are short shorts, ma’am. There’s barely enough fabric here to count as clothing.”

You swatted his arm, laughing. “You sound like a dad.”

He rolled his eyes, but he was clearly holding back a smirk. “Fine, fine. I’m just saying, I might need to carry around a spray bottle to keep other people from drooling.”

Despite all the sarcasm, he kept a close watch as you two walked. When someone looked a little too long, Seungmin would casually slide in front of their line of sight or wrap his arm around your shoulder like it was no big deal. Every time you teased him about it, he brushed it off with, “I’m just making sure no one gets the wrong idea.”

But when you got home and plopped onto the couch, legs stretched out across his lap, he looked down at you with a tiny smile.

“You really did look good, though,” he admitted softly, brushing his fingers across your shin. “Just don’t be surprised if I keep making fun of you. It’s how I cope.”

I.N (아이엔)

You were meeting Jeongin at a quiet riverside café for lunch, and it was hot out, so you wore a lightweight tank and a pair of stylish, high-waisted short shorts. As you approached the outdoor table where he sat waiting, sipping on iced tea and looking at his phone, his eyes caught you mid-step.

He literally choked on his drink.

You rushed over, laughing, as he coughed and turned beet red. “Jeongin! Are you okay?”

“I’m—yeah—I’m fine, I just—” He waved his hand in a panic, eyes darting anywhere except at your legs. “I wasn’t expecting… um… that.”

“What?” you said, twirling. “Too much?”

He covered his face with one hand, trying to compose himself. “You look amazing, okay? That’s the problem. I wasn’t ready to see that level of… leg.”

You giggled, reaching out to hold his hand across the table. “You’re adorable.”

He peeked at you between his fingers, bashful but clearly proud. “I mean, I am your boyfriend, so I guess it’s fine. But if someone else looks at you too long, I might have to challenge them to a duel. Or… I dunno, an arm wrestling match.”

Despite being flustered the whole lunch, he kept sneaking glances when he thought you weren’t looking — and every time your knees brushed under the table, his ears turned crimson.

[dreaming-of-tae]

Snowy Diamond Flakes

Hex code: #F6F6F7

Hex code: #D9D8DF

Hex code: #B0C2D7

Hex code: #B2A7BB

Hex code: #E4C2C7

Hex code: #F7D7D4

GIF source

Like/rb if use || no need to credit me || Click here for more!

[dreaming-of-tae]

♡ yandere!straykids

➜ 1/2/3 . gn!reader

ch : bangchan . leeknow . changbin . hyunjin . han . felix . seungmin . i.n

warnings :

[﹒notes] - I've been craving more yandere!straykids posts recently, and suffering due to the lack of there of... so I decided to make it myself! Also this is super inspired by "Super Psycho Love" By Simon Curtis, if you haven't listened to it- I'd recommend it! It's prob my fav song to write to.

Bang Chan (방찬)

The illusion of safety was his most potent weapon.

Bang Chan was warm. That was how it always began. He wore the kind of smile that made you feel seen, important. His eyes were soft, filled with a kind of compassion that pulled people in. He was the type to check if you’d eaten, send goodnight texts, and remember small details you didn’t even know you’d shared. You felt lucky. Blessed.

And then it started.

It was subtle at first—Chan’s protectiveness. A comment about how your friend always called too late. A suggestion to quit that night job because he “worried about you walking alone.” You brushed it off as care.

But you didn’t know Chan had cameras installed. You didn’t see the moment he sat in the dark, watching you sleep from the feed on his laptop. His hand clenched around a mug as you laughed on the phone with a coworker he didn't approve of. He told himself it was for your safety. The world was dangerous. People were liars. But he wasn’t.

He was the one who stayed. Who listened.

When you tried to pull away, things unraveled quickly. Your phone wouldn't connect to Wi-Fi anymore. Apps kept crashing. Your location mysteriously disappeared from friends’ phones. And Chan? He showed up at your door minutes after any attempt to leave, saying he “just had a feeling something was wrong.”

You realized then: he always knew where you were. Always.

“You don’t understand,” he’d whisper, voice trembling with emotion. “I’m doing this for us. The world doesn’t deserve you. They’ll ruin you.”

His apartment became your world. He made it cozy—blankets, books, your favorite snacks stocked weekly. He played your favorite music as he cooked. He smiled so lovingly it made you doubt your fear. But the locks were on the outside. And your phone, when returned, had no SIM card.

He kissed your forehead every night like a savior, his fingers stroking your hair as he whispered, “You’re safe now. With me.”

Was it safety? Or a cage painted gold?

Chan didn’t hurt you—not directly. But you weren’t free. He made himself your everything, until you couldn’t remember who you were without him.

And that was exactly what he wanted.

Lee Know (리노)

Lee Know was colder—aloof, distant, unknowable. He didn’t smile often, didn’t speak unless he had to. But when he looked at you, really looked at you, it was as if no one else in the world existed. You were a secret he kept tucked behind sharp eyes and a sharper tongue.

He never said he loved you. Not with words.

Instead, it was in the silence that stretched between you as he fixed your collar. In the way he stood between you and strangers. In how he watched—never touched, never demanded, just observed.

You thought it was harmless.

Until the night your ex showed up, drunk and yelling. He vanished the next day. The police found the man’s car parked at the edge of a bridge. Suicide, they said.

You knew better.

Minho didn’t deny it. He just looked at you and said, “Now you don’t have to be scared anymore.”

You weren’t scared of your ex.

You were scared of him.

Still, he didn’t force affection. No kisses, no touches—unless you initiated. That was the trap. He gave you the illusion of choice. But he was always there, just behind the curtain, watching.

When you talked to someone too long, their tires slashed. A coworker got transferred mysteriously. Your parents started receiving anonymous emails filled with half-truths and veiled threats, until they begged you to cut contact "for everyone's safety."

You confronted Minho, tears in your eyes. “Why are you doing this?”

He didn’t raise his voice.

“I’m not doing anything,” he said, brushing lint from your sleeve. “I’m fixing what’s broken. I’m removing distractions. I’m making room for us.”

“You can’t control my life.”

His eyes finally met yours. Cold. Flat. Unapologetic.

“I already do.”

Then, as if nothing had happened, he turned away and returned to feeding his cats. That was Minho’s cruelty—effortless, surgical. He didn’t need chains. You were already bound by fear, isolation, and the quiet terror that he would never let you go. Not ever.

And if he couldn't have you—truly have you—he’d destroy everything else. Every friend. Every plan. Every part of your life not attached to him.

He would either be your everything.

Or nothing would remain.

Changbin (창빈)

Changbin had always been intense. From the moment you met him, you felt the power in his presence—his voice, the way his eyes focused on you when you spoke, the way his shoulders tensed when someone looked at you the wrong way. He wasn’t the type to let things go. And when it came to you, he couldn’t ever let go.

He cared about you deeply. You knew that. He would do anything for you, always asking how your day was, offering his help, pulling you into tight, protective embraces. But underneath all of that was something darker—something that began to emerge once he realized you were everything he had ever needed.

It started slowly. One day, you noticed that you had missed a few texts. Changbin asked you if everything was okay, voice dripping with concern. "You didn't answer my messages for hours. Are you mad at me? Did something happen?" His gaze was unsettling, demanding a response—your response.

It was just a coincidence, you thought. But over time, the small incidents piled up. Your friends started to act... differently around you. They'd whisper when Changbin wasn’t around, give you strange looks, and avoid hanging out as much. It didn’t take long to realize that Changbin had been intervening in subtle ways. A rumor here, a misplaced message there, and soon, your social life dwindled to nothing.

One night, you tried to leave his apartment. You’d had enough. The control, the surveillance, the way he would watch you like a hawk when you spoke to anyone else—it was too much. But as soon as you reached the door, Changbin’s voice echoed from behind you, low, full of danger.

“Where are you going?”

You froze, your hand hovering over the handle, heart racing. You didn’t have an answer.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he said, his voice breaking. “I can’t let you go. You don’t understand. I can’t live without you. Don’t you get it?”

He walked toward you slowly, like a predator stalking its prey. You tried to back away, but there was nowhere to go. Changbin’s hands were on your shoulders, pulling you to him with surprising strength. His lips brushed your ear as he whispered, “I love you too much to let you ruin yourself. You’re mine. And no one else is going to take you from me.”

You had seen the violent side of Changbin before—his temper in moments of frustration, his rough, passionate outbursts when things didn’t go his way—but this... this was something else. The hunger in his eyes, the desperation in his voice—it was terrifying. He was breaking apart in front of you, and you realized then that he wasn’t going to let you leave. Ever.

Changbin didn’t hurt you—not physically. But the emotional manipulation was suffocating. Every day, you’d wake up to him checking your phone, asking about your plans, demanding to know who you were talking to. He’d track your every movement with precision, claiming he just wanted to protect you.

“You don't know how dangerous the world is," he'd say. "I’ll keep you safe. I'll never let anything happen to you. We’re meant to be together.”

And little by little, you found yourself drawn in, caught in the web of his affection and his threats. You weren’t sure anymore if you loved him—or if you were just too scared to leave.

Changbin was your protector. Your everything.

And now you were his prisoner.

Hyunjin (현진)

Hyunjin was beautiful. Everyone knew that. His striking features, his flawless skin, his flawless grace—it was impossible not to admire him. But it wasn’t just his looks that made you fall. It was his presence. The way he made you feel important, as if no one else in the room mattered. His attention was magnetic. His praise made you glow.

But like all things too perfect, there was a hidden cost.

From the start, Hyunjin made it clear how much he adored you. The little compliments. The soft touches. He would always ask how your day went, his eyes gleaming with interest, his voice smooth like velvet. At first, you thought it was sweet, even charming. But the more you got to know him, the more you realized that his attention wasn’t just affection—it was possessiveness in disguise.

At first, it seemed harmless. He asked for your schedule, just wanting to “make sure we had time to hang out.” He’d memorize every little detail about your likes, dislikes, even your habits. If you mentioned something you needed to buy, he’d get it for you, the next day, without fail. But then, he started to control the details of your life, too.

“You’re not going to that party,” he said one night, his tone more final than you’d ever heard. “There are too many people. They’ll want to take you from me.”

You protested, but his grip on your wrist was firm, and his eyes—those eyes—looked at you with a cold certainty. He didn’t see a partner. He saw something that belonged to him. And if you didn’t understand that, he was more than willing to remind you.

Every time you interacted with someone else, whether it was a friend, a coworker, or even a stranger, Hyunjin made it clear just how much it hurt him. He’d give you the silent treatment for days, his eyes clouded with jealousy, until you apologized, acknowledged him, and begged him to forgive you.

The breaking point came when you tried to leave him for good.

You had gathered your things, ready to move out. You couldn’t take it anymore. The watching. The whispering. The quiet threats veiled as “concerns” for your well-being. Hyunjin wouldn’t let you leave, though.

He showed up at your door, his face unreadable. “You think you can leave me?” he asked, his voice eerily calm.

You turned to face him, heart pounding. “You’re crazy. This isn’t love. This is control. I can’t live like this.”

Hyunjin stepped inside, closing the door with a soft click. His gaze was icy. “You don’t understand. I’m perfect for you. No one else will love you like I do. No one will appreciate you like I do.”

You backed away, but there was nowhere to go. Hyunjin’s hand reached out to stop you. “You can’t leave me. You don’t get to leave me. I’ve given you everything. And in return, you owe me your love. Your loyalty.”

His voice softened as he moved closer, his hand brushing your cheek. “I’ll do anything for you. I’ll keep you safe. But if you try to leave... I won’t let you.”

In that moment, you knew there was no escape. His love was all-consuming, a beautiful prison wrapped in the facade of perfection. He wanted you, and there was no room for anyone else.

Hyunjin smiled, and you felt the world close in. He wasn’t going to let you go. Not now. Not ever.

Han (한)

Han’s charm was impossible to ignore. His laughter was contagious, and his smile lit up every room. He was kind, soft-spoken, and had an uncanny ability to make you feel like the most important person in his world. It was the way he listened—really listened to you. The way he remembered the smallest details and wove them into casual conversations, making you feel like you were his everything.

At first, you were drawn to his warmth. Han wasn’t the type to push boundaries or demand your time; instead, he made you want to spend it with him. But there was something about him—something that felt too consuming, too deep, like he needed you more than you realized.

The first red flag appeared when he started to show up everywhere. At first, it was sweet. He’d “accidentally” run into you at a coffee shop you liked or at a park you often walked through. But then it became routine.

You would walk to work, and there he was, leaning against a lamppost, a smile playing on his lips. "Fancy meeting you here," he’d say, but his eyes always lingered just a little too long on you.

His texts were frequent, almost constant. At first, you thought it was cute—he was just excited to hear from you. But when your responses slowed down, he started to grow anxious. The messages turned from casual to desperate.

“Where are you? I’ve been thinking about you all day. Please text me back, I miss you.”

One night, when you were out with friends, Han showed up unannounced. His eyes, usually soft and inviting, were now dark, intense. He didn’t smile when he saw you. Instead, there was a coldness, a look that made your stomach drop.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were going out tonight?” Han’s voice was calm, but there was an edge to it, like he was trying to control the anger simmering beneath the surface.

Before you could respond, he pulled you aside, away from your friends, his grip tight on your wrist. “I don’t like it when you’re with other people. You belong with me, don’t you?” His voice was low, almost a growl, and you could feel the weight of his words suffocating you.

You tried to shake him off, but his fingers were like chains, and his eyes… they were no longer the playful, kind eyes you remembered. They were filled with possessiveness, dark and heavy. “I’ve been so patient,” Han continued, his voice barely above a whisper, “but you don’t understand. I need you. More than anything. No one else can have you. You’re mine.”

The way he said it—it wasn’t a request, it wasn’t a plea. It was a declaration.

That night, you tried to leave. You couldn’t stand the way he controlled every part of your life, how he knew where you were at all times, how he would show up uninvited, his presence always hanging over you.

But Han wouldn’t let you go.

He found ways to manipulate your reality. The next day, you went to check your phone and found it full of missed calls and messages. There was no way he could have known where you were, what you’d done, but it felt as though he was always one step ahead. Every time you tried to step away, every time you tried to create space, he filled it.

Han’s obsession was like a song you couldn’t escape—repeating over and over in your mind, his words lingering in every thought. “You’re mine,” he would say with a smile, the same smile that once made you feel safe, now twisted with control.

He didn’t hurt you. No. He didn’t need to. His love was the hurt. His constant surveillance, his suffocating affection—it was all meant to keep you close. And as the days passed, you found yourself wondering if there was any escape from him. After all, Han had given you everything, hadn’t he?

He would never let you go.

And somehow, that made you feel both terrified and… trapped.

Felix (필릭스)

Felix had always been the bright, charming one. His voice, so sweet and sincere, made everything feel light and effortless. He was a breath of fresh air, and his affection for you felt so genuine that it was hard to believe anyone could be more loving or caring.

When you first met Felix, it was like a whirlwind of laughter and warmth. He showered you with attention, always wanting to be by your side, asking about your day, your dreams, your worries. He seemed perfect—too perfect.

But perfection always hides something darker.

As time passed, Felix’s affection started to feel overwhelming. He never wanted you to be far away, never wanted you to spend time with anyone but him. At first, you didn’t think much of it. He was just loving, right? He just wanted to be close to you.

But when you went out with friends, you could see the way his smile would falter when he saw you laughing with someone else. His eyes, once warm and inviting, would flash with something darker, something possessive. You chalked it up to jealousy, but when he confronted you about it, you realized just how much it controlled him.

“I don’t want anyone else near you,” Felix confessed one night, his voice trembling with a mix of passion and fear. “I can’t stand it. It’s like they’re taking you away from me.”

It was then you realized—Felix wasn’t just in love with you. He was obsessed with you.

The more you distanced yourself, the more he clung to you. He knew where you were at all times. You could never make plans without him knowing. If you tried to leave, he would show up, his eyes wide and pleading. “Please don’t go. You’re the only one I need. Don’t make me lose you.”

One day, when you were alone at home, you saw him standing outside your window, his face pressed against the glass, his eyes unblinking. His presence made your heart race with anxiety, but his face, filled with an eerie calmness, told you everything. Felix didn’t just want you in his life—he needed you. And if you weren’t with him, he would find a way to make sure you were.

The phone calls grew incessant, the messages more frantic. If you didn’t reply immediately, he would send more, until your screen was flooded with them.

“I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t be this way… but I can’t help it. I need you. Please. I love you.”

And then the “accidents” started. Your car breaking down. A flat tire when you were on your way to meet someone. Every time you tried to do something without him, something went wrong. And Felix? He would show up, as if by coincidence, to “help.”

“You know I’ll always be there for you,” he’d say, brushing his hair out of his eyes as if nothing had happened.

But you knew. He was manipulating you, controlling you, ensuring that no matter where you went, no matter who you tried to talk to, you’d always come back to him.

Felix loved you. And that love? It wasn’t sweet, it wasn’t gentle—it was suffocating. He would never let you go, and you weren’t sure if you wanted to anymore. His love had twisted into something darker, and now you were trapped in it.

Felix’s smile never wavered, his hands never let go. “I’m the only one who can love you like this,” he’d whisper, his voice low, and you realized... he was right.

Seungmin (승민)

Seungmin had always been the calm one. His voice, soft and melodic, was a contrast to the louder personalities around him. He was dependable, steady, and always there when you needed him, like the quiet rain that softly nurtures the earth without ever demanding attention. At first, it was his gentleness that drew you in—the way he would always ask how your day was, his concern never overbearing but deeply felt.

But beneath his calm demeanor, there was a growing hunger.

The first time Seungmin’s obsession showed itself was subtle. He started showing up at your favorite places. You’d mention in passing that you liked a certain café, and the next time you went there, Seungmin was already sitting at a table, waiting for you with a warm smile, as if he’d been there for hours. It felt sweet, at first—he was just thinking of you. But soon, the appearances became more frequent. You’d be walking home from work, and there he was, leaning against a lamppost, his gaze immediately seeking yours as soon as you turned the corner.

You tried to brush it off as coincidence, but it became clear that Seungmin was always there.

He’d know where you were, even when you hadn’t told him. "I was just thinking of you," he’d say, smiling with a slight edge to his voice. You didn’t know why, but there was something unsettling about how perfect his timing was. The way he always seemed to be in the right place at the right time.

One evening, when you tried to spend time with friends, you felt a sudden pang of unease when you noticed Seungmin in the distance, standing by the door, watching. His eyes were locked onto you, not with the warmth you were used to, but with something darker—a hint of desperation. You excused yourself to take a break, but when you stepped outside, Seungmin was already there, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed tightly.

"Why didn’t you tell me you were going out tonight?" he asked, his voice eerily calm, but the tightness around his mouth made it clear that he wasn’t asking out of concern—he was demanding an answer.

You tried to explain, but his expression didn’t soften. He wasn’t angry, but there was something unnerving in his stillness.

"You don’t need to see them. You don’t need anyone else. You’ve always had me, haven’t you?" He took a step toward you, the distance between you closing with each heartbeat. "I’ll always be here. They won’t care about you the way I do. You don’t need them. You only need me."

There was an unsettling finality in his words. A quiet, obsessive certainty.

After that, things began to escalate. Seungmin started showing up at your apartment uninvited, his face always masked with a smile, as if everything was fine. But his eyes—those eyes that used to be so warm—were now cold and calculating, always watching, always waiting for the right moment to slip in closer.

His love was suffocating. It wasn’t loving. It was possessive, controlling, and manipulative. He would check your phone when you weren’t around, “accidentally” showing up to events you hadn’t mentioned, and always made sure you couldn’t spend time with anyone else. You were his.

"Don’t you trust me?" Seungmin asked one night, sitting on your couch as you tried to keep your distance. His voice was soft, but his eyes, wide and unblinking, made it clear he wasn’t leaving until you gave him the answer he wanted. “I know what’s best for you. They don’t understand you like I do.”

When you tried to get away, he’d insist, his tone low and gentle, "I’m just trying to protect you. The world is too dangerous. You can’t trust anyone but me."

And the worst part? You believed him.

There was no escaping Seungmin. He wouldn’t let you leave, wouldn’t let you breathe without him hovering. His devotion became your prison, and now, you weren’t sure if you ever wanted to leave. You couldn’t. Not with him watching you like that.

I.N (아이엔)

Jeongin had always been sweet, almost childlike in his approach to life. His soft voice and bright eyes were a balm to anyone feeling the weight of the world. He was the one who laughed easily, who made the effort to check on everyone around him, and who always seemed to put others first. You’d seen him around, always with that warm smile and the promise of kindness.

But as you got closer, you began to notice something else beneath that sweetness. Something more dangerous.

At first, Jeongin’s interest in you was innocent—almost too innocent. He’d ask how you were doing, how your day had been, always wanting to be the one to cheer you up when you were down. He’d bring you your favorite snacks, surprise you with small gifts, and always make sure you knew he was thinking of you.

But it wasn’t just kindness anymore. It was dependence.

One evening, you mentioned wanting to take a weekend trip, to get away from everything for a bit. The moment the words left your lips, you saw Jeongin’s face fall, his eyes dimming for the first time. It was a subtle shift, but it was there. He tried to hide it with a smile, but you could see the hurt in his eyes, the way his fingers gripped his phone a little too tightly as he nodded.

“Maybe I could go with you?” he asked, voice soft, almost pleading.

You hesitated, unsure of how to respond. It seemed innocent enough, but the more you tried to back out of the idea, the more persistent he became. It was the first time you saw him truly need something.

The next day, you tried to cancel the trip. But when you opened your door, Jeongin was standing there, looking at you with those wide, innocent eyes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be too forward,” he said softly, his hands twisting nervously. “But I… I just don’t want to be apart from you. I can’t be.”

His voice was a whisper, but it carried an unspoken weight.

“I just want to be with you. Please. We can have fun together. It’ll be just you and me.”

You knew something was wrong when you saw the obsessive look in his eyes. The way he was clinging to you, how he never wanted to let go, how every word he said felt more like a demand than a request. But you couldn’t find the strength to push him away.

He began to manipulate you in small ways. If you tried to hang out with someone else, you’d find yourself receiving messages from Jeongin, sometimes hourly, always filled with things like:

“I miss you.” “Are you with someone else?” “I was thinking of you. I hope you’re not too busy for me.”

It became impossible to escape. Jeongin’s presence was always there, a constant. He was in your thoughts, in your texts, in every part of your day. And the more you tried to distance yourself, the more he would show up, acting innocent, acting like the boy who just wanted to be with you.

“Don’t you love me?” he asked one night, his voice cracking as he stood in front of you, his eyes wide with pleading desperation. "I can’t live without you."

He wasn’t asking for your love. He was demanding it. Needing it.

The world around you faded as Jeongin slowly, gently, began to consume you. His obsession was wrapped in the guise of affection, wrapped in smiles and kindness—but it was clear now. His love wasn’t a gift. It was a trap.

He wouldn’t let you go. He couldn’t.

And you realized with a sinking heart that you didn’t know if you ever wanted to escape, either.

[dreaming-of-tae]

♡ yandere!straykids

➜ 1/2/3 . gn!reader

ch : bangchan . leeknow . changbin . hyunjin . han . felix . seungmin . i.n

warnings :

[﹒notes] - I've been craving more yandere!straykids posts recently, and suffering due to the lack of there of... so I decided to make it myself! Also this is super inspired by "Super Psycho Love" By Simon Curtis, if you haven't listened to it- I'd recommend it! It's prob my fav song to write to.

Bang Chan (방찬)

The illusion of safety was his most potent weapon.

Bang Chan was warm. That was how it always began. He wore the kind of smile that made you feel seen, important. His eyes were soft, filled with a kind of compassion that pulled people in. He was the type to check if you’d eaten, send goodnight texts, and remember small details you didn’t even know you’d shared. You felt lucky. Blessed.

And then it started.

It was subtle at first—Chan’s protectiveness. A comment about how your friend always called too late. A suggestion to quit that night job because he “worried about you walking alone.” You brushed it off as care.

But you didn’t know Chan had cameras installed. You didn’t see the moment he sat in the dark, watching you sleep from the feed on his laptop. His hand clenched around a mug as you laughed on the phone with a coworker he didn't approve of. He told himself it was for your safety. The world was dangerous. People were liars. But he wasn’t.

He was the one who stayed. Who listened.

When you tried to pull away, things unraveled quickly. Your phone wouldn't connect to Wi-Fi anymore. Apps kept crashing. Your location mysteriously disappeared from friends’ phones. And Chan? He showed up at your door minutes after any attempt to leave, saying he “just had a feeling something was wrong.”

You realized then: he always knew where you were. Always.

“You don’t understand,” he’d whisper, voice trembling with emotion. “I’m doing this for us. The world doesn’t deserve you. They’ll ruin you.”

His apartment became your world. He made it cozy—blankets, books, your favorite snacks stocked weekly. He played your favorite music as he cooked. He smiled so lovingly it made you doubt your fear. But the locks were on the outside. And your phone, when returned, had no SIM card.

He kissed your forehead every night like a savior, his fingers stroking your hair as he whispered, “You’re safe now. With me.”

Was it safety? Or a cage painted gold?

Chan didn’t hurt you—not directly. But you weren’t free. He made himself your everything, until you couldn’t remember who you were without him.

And that was exactly what he wanted.

Lee Know (리노)

Lee Know was colder—aloof, distant, unknowable. He didn’t smile often, didn’t speak unless he had to. But when he looked at you, really looked at you, it was as if no one else in the world existed. You were a secret he kept tucked behind sharp eyes and a sharper tongue.

He never said he loved you. Not with words.

Instead, it was in the silence that stretched between you as he fixed your collar. In the way he stood between you and strangers. In how he watched—never touched, never demanded, just observed.

You thought it was harmless.

Until the night your ex showed up, drunk and yelling. He vanished the next day. The police found the man’s car parked at the edge of a bridge. Suicide, they said.

You knew better.

Minho didn’t deny it. He just looked at you and said, “Now you don’t have to be scared anymore.”

You weren’t scared of your ex.

You were scared of him.

Still, he didn’t force affection. No kisses, no touches—unless you initiated. That was the trap. He gave you the illusion of choice. But he was always there, just behind the curtain, watching.

When you talked to someone too long, their tires slashed. A coworker got transferred mysteriously. Your parents started receiving anonymous emails filled with half-truths and veiled threats, until they begged you to cut contact "for everyone's safety."

You confronted Minho, tears in your eyes. “Why are you doing this?”

He didn’t raise his voice.

“I’m not doing anything,” he said, brushing lint from your sleeve. “I’m fixing what’s broken. I’m removing distractions. I’m making room for us.”

“You can’t control my life.”

His eyes finally met yours. Cold. Flat. Unapologetic.

“I already do.”

Then, as if nothing had happened, he turned away and returned to feeding his cats. That was Minho’s cruelty—effortless, surgical. He didn’t need chains. You were already bound by fear, isolation, and the quiet terror that he would never let you go. Not ever.

And if he couldn't have you—truly have you—he’d destroy everything else. Every friend. Every plan. Every part of your life not attached to him.

He would either be your everything.

Or nothing would remain.

Changbin (창빈)

Changbin had always been intense. From the moment you met him, you felt the power in his presence—his voice, the way his eyes focused on you when you spoke, the way his shoulders tensed when someone looked at you the wrong way. He wasn’t the type to let things go. And when it came to you, he couldn’t ever let go.

He cared about you deeply. You knew that. He would do anything for you, always asking how your day was, offering his help, pulling you into tight, protective embraces. But underneath all of that was something darker—something that began to emerge once he realized you were everything he had ever needed.

It started slowly. One day, you noticed that you had missed a few texts. Changbin asked you if everything was okay, voice dripping with concern. "You didn't answer my messages for hours. Are you mad at me? Did something happen?" His gaze was unsettling, demanding a response—your response.

It was just a coincidence, you thought. But over time, the small incidents piled up. Your friends started to act... differently around you. They'd whisper when Changbin wasn’t around, give you strange looks, and avoid hanging out as much. It didn’t take long to realize that Changbin had been intervening in subtle ways. A rumor here, a misplaced message there, and soon, your social life dwindled to nothing.

One night, you tried to leave his apartment. You’d had enough. The control, the surveillance, the way he would watch you like a hawk when you spoke to anyone else—it was too much. But as soon as you reached the door, Changbin’s voice echoed from behind you, low, full of danger.

“Where are you going?”

You froze, your hand hovering over the handle, heart racing. You didn’t have an answer.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he said, his voice breaking. “I can’t let you go. You don’t understand. I can’t live without you. Don’t you get it?”

He walked toward you slowly, like a predator stalking its prey. You tried to back away, but there was nowhere to go. Changbin’s hands were on your shoulders, pulling you to him with surprising strength. His lips brushed your ear as he whispered, “I love you too much to let you ruin yourself. You’re mine. And no one else is going to take you from me.”

You had seen the violent side of Changbin before—his temper in moments of frustration, his rough, passionate outbursts when things didn’t go his way—but this... this was something else. The hunger in his eyes, the desperation in his voice—it was terrifying. He was breaking apart in front of you, and you realized then that he wasn’t going to let you leave. Ever.

Changbin didn’t hurt you—not physically. But the emotional manipulation was suffocating. Every day, you’d wake up to him checking your phone, asking about your plans, demanding to know who you were talking to. He’d track your every movement with precision, claiming he just wanted to protect you.

“You don't know how dangerous the world is," he'd say. "I’ll keep you safe. I'll never let anything happen to you. We’re meant to be together.”

And little by little, you found yourself drawn in, caught in the web of his affection and his threats. You weren’t sure anymore if you loved him—or if you were just too scared to leave.

Changbin was your protector. Your everything.

And now you were his prisoner.

Hyunjin (현진)

Hyunjin was beautiful. Everyone knew that. His striking features, his flawless skin, his flawless grace—it was impossible not to admire him. But it wasn’t just his looks that made you fall. It was his presence. The way he made you feel important, as if no one else in the room mattered. His attention was magnetic. His praise made you glow.

But like all things too perfect, there was a hidden cost.

From the start, Hyunjin made it clear how much he adored you. The little compliments. The soft touches. He would always ask how your day went, his eyes gleaming with interest, his voice smooth like velvet. At first, you thought it was sweet, even charming. But the more you got to know him, the more you realized that his attention wasn’t just affection—it was possessiveness in disguise.

At first, it seemed harmless. He asked for your schedule, just wanting to “make sure we had time to hang out.” He’d memorize every little detail about your likes, dislikes, even your habits. If you mentioned something you needed to buy, he’d get it for you, the next day, without fail. But then, he started to control the details of your life, too.

“You’re not going to that party,” he said one night, his tone more final than you’d ever heard. “There are too many people. They’ll want to take you from me.”

You protested, but his grip on your wrist was firm, and his eyes—those eyes—looked at you with a cold certainty. He didn’t see a partner. He saw something that belonged to him. And if you didn’t understand that, he was more than willing to remind you.

Every time you interacted with someone else, whether it was a friend, a coworker, or even a stranger, Hyunjin made it clear just how much it hurt him. He’d give you the silent treatment for days, his eyes clouded with jealousy, until you apologized, acknowledged him, and begged him to forgive you.

The breaking point came when you tried to leave him for good.

You had gathered your things, ready to move out. You couldn’t take it anymore. The watching. The whispering. The quiet threats veiled as “concerns” for your well-being. Hyunjin wouldn’t let you leave, though.

He showed up at your door, his face unreadable. “You think you can leave me?” he asked, his voice eerily calm.

You turned to face him, heart pounding. “You’re crazy. This isn’t love. This is control. I can’t live like this.”

Hyunjin stepped inside, closing the door with a soft click. His gaze was icy. “You don’t understand. I’m perfect for you. No one else will love you like I do. No one will appreciate you like I do.”

You backed away, but there was nowhere to go. Hyunjin’s hand reached out to stop you. “You can’t leave me. You don’t get to leave me. I’ve given you everything. And in return, you owe me your love. Your loyalty.”

His voice softened as he moved closer, his hand brushing your cheek. “I’ll do anything for you. I’ll keep you safe. But if you try to leave... I won’t let you.”

In that moment, you knew there was no escape. His love was all-consuming, a beautiful prison wrapped in the facade of perfection. He wanted you, and there was no room for anyone else.

Hyunjin smiled, and you felt the world close in. He wasn’t going to let you go. Not now. Not ever.

Han (한)

Han’s charm was impossible to ignore. His laughter was contagious, and his smile lit up every room. He was kind, soft-spoken, and had an uncanny ability to make you feel like the most important person in his world. It was the way he listened—really listened to you. The way he remembered the smallest details and wove them into casual conversations, making you feel like you were his everything.

At first, you were drawn to his warmth. Han wasn’t the type to push boundaries or demand your time; instead, he made you want to spend it with him. But there was something about him—something that felt too consuming, too deep, like he needed you more than you realized.

The first red flag appeared when he started to show up everywhere. At first, it was sweet. He’d “accidentally” run into you at a coffee shop you liked or at a park you often walked through. But then it became routine.

You would walk to work, and there he was, leaning against a lamppost, a smile playing on his lips. "Fancy meeting you here," he’d say, but his eyes always lingered just a little too long on you.

His texts were frequent, almost constant. At first, you thought it was cute—he was just excited to hear from you. But when your responses slowed down, he started to grow anxious. The messages turned from casual to desperate.

“Where are you? I’ve been thinking about you all day. Please text me back, I miss you.”

One night, when you were out with friends, Han showed up unannounced. His eyes, usually soft and inviting, were now dark, intense. He didn’t smile when he saw you. Instead, there was a coldness, a look that made your stomach drop.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were going out tonight?” Han’s voice was calm, but there was an edge to it, like he was trying to control the anger simmering beneath the surface.

Before you could respond, he pulled you aside, away from your friends, his grip tight on your wrist. “I don’t like it when you’re with other people. You belong with me, don’t you?” His voice was low, almost a growl, and you could feel the weight of his words suffocating you.

You tried to shake him off, but his fingers were like chains, and his eyes… they were no longer the playful, kind eyes you remembered. They were filled with possessiveness, dark and heavy. “I’ve been so patient,” Han continued, his voice barely above a whisper, “but you don’t understand. I need you. More than anything. No one else can have you. You’re mine.”

The way he said it—it wasn’t a request, it wasn’t a plea. It was a declaration.

That night, you tried to leave. You couldn’t stand the way he controlled every part of your life, how he knew where you were at all times, how he would show up uninvited, his presence always hanging over you.

But Han wouldn’t let you go.

He found ways to manipulate your reality. The next day, you went to check your phone and found it full of missed calls and messages. There was no way he could have known where you were, what you’d done, but it felt as though he was always one step ahead. Every time you tried to step away, every time you tried to create space, he filled it.

Han’s obsession was like a song you couldn’t escape—repeating over and over in your mind, his words lingering in every thought. “You’re mine,” he would say with a smile, the same smile that once made you feel safe, now twisted with control.

He didn’t hurt you. No. He didn’t need to. His love was the hurt. His constant surveillance, his suffocating affection—it was all meant to keep you close. And as the days passed, you found yourself wondering if there was any escape from him. After all, Han had given you everything, hadn’t he?

He would never let you go.

And somehow, that made you feel both terrified and… trapped.

Felix (필릭스)

Felix had always been the bright, charming one. His voice, so sweet and sincere, made everything feel light and effortless. He was a breath of fresh air, and his affection for you felt so genuine that it was hard to believe anyone could be more loving or caring.

When you first met Felix, it was like a whirlwind of laughter and warmth. He showered you with attention, always wanting to be by your side, asking about your day, your dreams, your worries. He seemed perfect—too perfect.

But perfection always hides something darker.

As time passed, Felix’s affection started to feel overwhelming. He never wanted you to be far away, never wanted you to spend time with anyone but him. At first, you didn’t think much of it. He was just loving, right? He just wanted to be close to you.

But when you went out with friends, you could see the way his smile would falter when he saw you laughing with someone else. His eyes, once warm and inviting, would flash with something darker, something possessive. You chalked it up to jealousy, but when he confronted you about it, you realized just how much it controlled him.

“I don’t want anyone else near you,” Felix confessed one night, his voice trembling with a mix of passion and fear. “I can’t stand it. It’s like they’re taking you away from me.”

It was then you realized—Felix wasn’t just in love with you. He was obsessed with you.

The more you distanced yourself, the more he clung to you. He knew where you were at all times. You could never make plans without him knowing. If you tried to leave, he would show up, his eyes wide and pleading. “Please don’t go. You’re the only one I need. Don’t make me lose you.”

One day, when you were alone at home, you saw him standing outside your window, his face pressed against the glass, his eyes unblinking. His presence made your heart race with anxiety, but his face, filled with an eerie calmness, told you everything. Felix didn’t just want you in his life—he needed you. And if you weren’t with him, he would find a way to make sure you were.

The phone calls grew incessant, the messages more frantic. If you didn’t reply immediately, he would send more, until your screen was flooded with them.

“I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t be this way… but I can’t help it. I need you. Please. I love you.”

And then the “accidents” started. Your car breaking down. A flat tire when you were on your way to meet someone. Every time you tried to do something without him, something went wrong. And Felix? He would show up, as if by coincidence, to “help.”

“You know I’ll always be there for you,” he’d say, brushing his hair out of his eyes as if nothing had happened.

But you knew. He was manipulating you, controlling you, ensuring that no matter where you went, no matter who you tried to talk to, you’d always come back to him.

Felix loved you. And that love? It wasn’t sweet, it wasn’t gentle—it was suffocating. He would never let you go, and you weren’t sure if you wanted to anymore. His love had twisted into something darker, and now you were trapped in it.

Felix’s smile never wavered, his hands never let go. “I’m the only one who can love you like this,” he’d whisper, his voice low, and you realized... he was right.

Seungmin (승민)

Seungmin had always been the calm one. His voice, soft and melodic, was a contrast to the louder personalities around him. He was dependable, steady, and always there when you needed him, like the quiet rain that softly nurtures the earth without ever demanding attention. At first, it was his gentleness that drew you in—the way he would always ask how your day was, his concern never overbearing but deeply felt.

But beneath his calm demeanor, there was a growing hunger.

The first time Seungmin’s obsession showed itself was subtle. He started showing up at your favorite places. You’d mention in passing that you liked a certain café, and the next time you went there, Seungmin was already sitting at a table, waiting for you with a warm smile, as if he’d been there for hours. It felt sweet, at first—he was just thinking of you. But soon, the appearances became more frequent. You’d be walking home from work, and there he was, leaning against a lamppost, his gaze immediately seeking yours as soon as you turned the corner.

You tried to brush it off as coincidence, but it became clear that Seungmin was always there.

He’d know where you were, even when you hadn’t told him. "I was just thinking of you," he’d say, smiling with a slight edge to his voice. You didn’t know why, but there was something unsettling about how perfect his timing was. The way he always seemed to be in the right place at the right time.

One evening, when you tried to spend time with friends, you felt a sudden pang of unease when you noticed Seungmin in the distance, standing by the door, watching. His eyes were locked onto you, not with the warmth you were used to, but with something darker—a hint of desperation. You excused yourself to take a break, but when you stepped outside, Seungmin was already there, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed tightly.

"Why didn’t you tell me you were going out tonight?" he asked, his voice eerily calm, but the tightness around his mouth made it clear that he wasn’t asking out of concern—he was demanding an answer.

You tried to explain, but his expression didn’t soften. He wasn’t angry, but there was something unnerving in his stillness.

"You don’t need to see them. You don’t need anyone else. You’ve always had me, haven’t you?" He took a step toward you, the distance between you closing with each heartbeat. "I’ll always be here. They won’t care about you the way I do. You don’t need them. You only need me."

There was an unsettling finality in his words. A quiet, obsessive certainty.

After that, things began to escalate. Seungmin started showing up at your apartment uninvited, his face always masked with a smile, as if everything was fine. But his eyes—those eyes that used to be so warm—were now cold and calculating, always watching, always waiting for the right moment to slip in closer.

His love was suffocating. It wasn’t loving. It was possessive, controlling, and manipulative. He would check your phone when you weren’t around, “accidentally” showing up to events you hadn’t mentioned, and always made sure you couldn’t spend time with anyone else. You were his.

"Don’t you trust me?" Seungmin asked one night, sitting on your couch as you tried to keep your distance. His voice was soft, but his eyes, wide and unblinking, made it clear he wasn’t leaving until you gave him the answer he wanted. “I know what’s best for you. They don’t understand you like I do.”

When you tried to get away, he’d insist, his tone low and gentle, "I’m just trying to protect you. The world is too dangerous. You can’t trust anyone but me."

And the worst part? You believed him.

There was no escaping Seungmin. He wouldn’t let you leave, wouldn’t let you breathe without him hovering. His devotion became your prison, and now, you weren’t sure if you ever wanted to leave. You couldn’t. Not with him watching you like that.

I.N (아이엔)

Jeongin had always been sweet, almost childlike in his approach to life. His soft voice and bright eyes were a balm to anyone feeling the weight of the world. He was the one who laughed easily, who made the effort to check on everyone around him, and who always seemed to put others first. You’d seen him around, always with that warm smile and the promise of kindness.

But as you got closer, you began to notice something else beneath that sweetness. Something more dangerous.

At first, Jeongin’s interest in you was innocent—almost too innocent. He’d ask how you were doing, how your day had been, always wanting to be the one to cheer you up when you were down. He’d bring you your favorite snacks, surprise you with small gifts, and always make sure you knew he was thinking of you.

But it wasn’t just kindness anymore. It was dependence.

One evening, you mentioned wanting to take a weekend trip, to get away from everything for a bit. The moment the words left your lips, you saw Jeongin’s face fall, his eyes dimming for the first time. It was a subtle shift, but it was there. He tried to hide it with a smile, but you could see the hurt in his eyes, the way his fingers gripped his phone a little too tightly as he nodded.

“Maybe I could go with you?” he asked, voice soft, almost pleading.

You hesitated, unsure of how to respond. It seemed innocent enough, but the more you tried to back out of the idea, the more persistent he became. It was the first time you saw him truly need something.

The next day, you tried to cancel the trip. But when you opened your door, Jeongin was standing there, looking at you with those wide, innocent eyes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be too forward,” he said softly, his hands twisting nervously. “But I… I just don’t want to be apart from you. I can’t be.”

His voice was a whisper, but it carried an unspoken weight.

“I just want to be with you. Please. We can have fun together. It’ll be just you and me.”

You knew something was wrong when you saw the obsessive look in his eyes. The way he was clinging to you, how he never wanted to let go, how every word he said felt more like a demand than a request. But you couldn’t find the strength to push him away.

He began to manipulate you in small ways. If you tried to hang out with someone else, you’d find yourself receiving messages from Jeongin, sometimes hourly, always filled with things like:

“I miss you.” “Are you with someone else?” “I was thinking of you. I hope you’re not too busy for me.”

It became impossible to escape. Jeongin’s presence was always there, a constant. He was in your thoughts, in your texts, in every part of your day. And the more you tried to distance yourself, the more he would show up, acting innocent, acting like the boy who just wanted to be with you.

“Don’t you love me?” he asked one night, his voice cracking as he stood in front of you, his eyes wide with pleading desperation. "I can’t live without you."

He wasn’t asking for your love. He was demanding it. Needing it.

The world around you faded as Jeongin slowly, gently, began to consume you. His obsession was wrapped in the guise of affection, wrapped in smiles and kindness—but it was clear now. His love wasn’t a gift. It was a trap.

He wouldn’t let you go. He couldn’t.

And you realized with a sinking heart that you didn’t know if you ever wanted to escape, either.

[dreaming-of-tae]

♡ skz finding out they're dating an idol

How'd They Find Out? How'd They React? How'd They Handle It?

➜ fluff/angst w/ comfort . gn!reader

ch : bangchan . leeknow . changbin . hyunjin . han . felix . seungmin . i.n

warnings : emotional conflict / angst , mild cursing / intensity: (very mild) , romantic themes , mentions of fame/idol industry pressures

[﹒notes] - My first straykids post!! hope you guys enjoy this as I put a lot of time in ✩ as of now my requests are open so if you have any requests feel free to send them in~ These headcanon/stories are written in a more angsty way, because of how serious being an idol is ♡

Bang Chan (방찬)

You and Chan had been dating in private for nearly a year. It wasn’t exactly a secret relationship, but both of you kept it far away from the public eye. You were always vague about your career, describing yourself as “in the entertainment industry” but never elaborating. You always told yourself you’d come clean eventually — once the time was right.

But the truth was, you were an idol preparing to debut with a major company. And when your group finally debuted, everything changed.

The news came out not from you, but through the industry grapevine. JYP staff began murmuring about a new rookie group shaking the charts — and Chan’s ears perked up when he heard your name associated with them.

At first, he thought it was a coincidence. Maybe someone who just had the same name. But then he saw the teaser.

Your face.

Your voice.

Your debut.

He watched the performance in his studio late one night, headphones in, heart pounding. He didn't even realize he was gripping the armrest of his chair until his fingers went numb. It wasn't just that you were an idol. It was the fact that you'd kept it from him — someone who prided himself on being open, trustworthy, and understanding in relationships.

When you finally walked into his studio the next day, it was quiet. Too quiet.

He didn’t yell. Chan never did. But his silence was louder than any shouting could be.

“You debuted,” he said, not looking up from his laptop.

You tried to explain — how scared you were, how much pressure you were under, how much you wanted to tell him but didn’t want to ruin your shot or involve him in any scandal. Your voice cracked, but you kept going.

“I wasn’t hiding you, I was hiding me,” you told him, near tears.

He leaned back, staring at the ceiling, exhaling slowly.

“You know I’d never be mad at you for chasing your dream,” he said softly. “But... I thought we were in this together. I thought we shared everything.”

That line stung more than anything.

It takes time. Chan isn’t one to hold grudges, but he feels things deeply. He spends days reflecting — not just on your relationship, but on what it meant for you to feel like you couldn’t trust him with something so big.

Eventually, he reaches out, asking to meet. This time, he's warmer, a little more relaxed.

“You looked incredible on stage,” he admits, smiling shyly. “I’m proud of you.”

He apologizes for his coldness, but also asks you to let him in — even when things are messy, complicated, or scary. “We’re idols,” he says. “We know this life isn’t easy. But I want to share it with you.”

From that point on, he’s your biggest supporter — attending shows in secret, leaving notes in your dressing room when he can, and giving you vocal tips late at night.

He doesn’t love that your schedules now clash and your careers are public property, but he accepts it. Because at the end of the day, you’re still you — and he’s still the guy who fell in love with you, long before the world knew your name.

Lee Know (리노)

Minho had always suspected you were “more than you let on.” The way you carried yourself, the way you avoided certain questions, the way your phone always lit up with messages from people labeled only with emojis. You were mysterious — something he found intriguing.

You’d been together quietly for a little over six months, and while Minho wasn’t the kind of guy to push boundaries, he was observant. Very observant.

Then it happened — your group dropped a surprise debut showcase.

And there you were. Center stage. Flawless. Charismatic. An idol.

Minho sat there in his dorm room, your face filling his screen, members buzzing around him, exclaiming “Wait — isn’t that…?”

He didn’t say a word.

Just stared.

And then left the room.

You knew you had to tell him — and you were already on your way over when your phone started buzzing. A message from Minho: “We need to talk.”

When you arrived, his expression was unreadable. Arms crossed, leaning against the wall like he’d been waiting hours.

“So,” he said, voice clipped. “Anything you want to share?”

You tried to explain — the contracts, the company’s PR strategy, your own fears. But Minho’s eyebrows raised.

“Don’t tell me it was all about timing. You had months.”

His voice was sharper than usual. He wasn’t angry in the explosive way — he was angry in the quiet, disappointed way that only someone who’s truly hurt can be.

“I don’t care that you’re an idol,” he finally said. “I care that you didn’t trust me enough to be honest.”

You stood there, feeling like the world had dropped out from under you.

But you didn’t give up. You reached for his hand. “Minho… I didn’t know how. I didn’t want you to think I was using you. Or lying. Or trying to compete. I was scared I’d lose you.”

Something shifted in his expression at that.

Lee Know doesn’t forgive easily — but he does listen.

It takes a long conversation, a lot of silence, and a few sarcastic jabs (“So do I have to call you sunbaenim now?”), but eventually, he lets down the walls again.

Minho is surprisingly vulnerable when you crack through the tough outer shell. He opens up about how he’s always struggled with trust — how hard it is to feel close to people when the industry is full of masks.

“But I want to trust you,” he admits quietly, “so let me.”

From then on, he becomes fiercely protective. He never shows it in dramatic ways, but it’s there — the texts checking in after your late-night schedules, the hand squeeze before a big stage, the teasing messages when you post a killer performance.

He’ll never say “I’m your number one fan” out loud, but he doesn’t have to.

He’s the one watching your fancams at 2 AM when he thinks no one’s looking. The one who subtly retweets your group’s success through fan accounts. The one who learns your choreography just to mockingly dance it in front of you — only to get every step exactly right.

Changbin (창빈)

Dating Changbin had been like finding home. He was warm, goofy, emotionally intelligent, and one of the few idols who knew how to switch off the performance face when the cameras were gone. You met him through a mutual friend, and your relationship bloomed over late-night ramen, playlists, and gym sessions.

He knew you were “in music,” but you always steered the conversation away when it got too close to your career specifics.

You’d rehearsed how to tell him the truth so many times. But your company’s unexpected early debut announcement forced your hand before you were ready. One minute, you were planning your next date with him; the next, your debut stage was trending on Twitter.

He didn’t find out from you.

He found out on Instagram, scrolling through hashtags, when a photo of you in full stage makeup from a press showcase filled his feed. He blinked, confused.

Wait. That was you. Center stage. Surrounded by dancers. Dressed in a designer outfit.

The caption read: [Name], center of [Group Name], the next big thing in K-pop.

He sat in stunned silence, your unopened text from earlier still sitting on his phone screen.

It read: “Can we talk later tonight? Please.”

You showed up to his studio hours later, already anticipating the hurt in his eyes.

He wasn’t angry — not in the explosive sense. But Changbin felt things deeply, and that depth was now tinged with betrayal.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked softly, fingers fiddling with the drawstring on his hoodie. “Was I… just someone to pass time with until you debuted?”

You rushed to explain — how scared you were of being seen as someone using him, how your company warned you not to get involved romantically before debut, how you’d planned to tell him when the timing felt safer.

“I didn’t want you to see me differently,” you whispered.

“I already saw you,” he said. “The real you. That’s why it hurts.”

Changbin spirals a bit. Not dramatically — but internally. He overthinks, questions every moment, replays your interactions, wondering if there were signs he missed. But despite all the confusion and hurt, he doesn’t give up on you.

He just needs time.

You give him space, unsure if he’ll reach back out — but a few days later, he does. He texts you a selfie of him holding up your debut album, captioned: “I still meant it when I said I liked you. That hasn’t changed.”

When you meet again, the air is gentler. You talk — really talk. He admits his insecurities. You show him your practice clips and share how long you’ve dreamed of this.

From that point on, he becomes your unofficial hype man. He studies your choreo so he can do your fanchants, sneaks your songs into his playlists, and even writes a verse about you for a mixtape — cryptic enough not to be obvious, but personal enough that you know.

His love is loud, even if his pain was quiet. And in the end, he never stops believing in you — or the version of you he fell for long before the lights hit your stage.

Hyunjin (현진)

Being with Hyunjin felt like walking through an art museum — every moment was soaked in feeling, beauty, and subtle intensity. He was affectionate, expressive, and deeply attentive. He'd write little poems for you, draw doodles on your hands when you were bored, and always looked at you like you were a masterpiece.

You adored him for that. And it made keeping your secret even harder.

Your debut had been quietly brewing for over a year, and your company was famously strict. Dating wasn’t just frowned upon — it was a career risk. So you said nothing, afraid to jeopardize your shot or his.

But when your group's debut MV dropped and the internet lit up with reactions, it didn’t take long for Hyunjin to put the pieces together. He knew your mannerisms, your eyes, the tilt of your head. He recognized you instantly.

But what crushed him wasn’t that you were an idol.

It was that he had to find out with the rest of the world.

You found him in his apartment the next evening — music off, curtains drawn, sketchbook open but untouched. He looked up when you entered, his eyes unreadable.

“Why didn’t you trust me with this?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

You sat beside him, heart thudding, and told him everything — the fears, the company’s threats, the guilt. You confessed how each day that passed without telling him made it harder to come clean. How you hated yourself for not trusting the person who treated you like you hung the stars.

“I wanted to protect what we had,” you said. “But I ended up hurting you.”

He didn’t respond for a long while. Then, slowly, he handed you his sketchbook.

Inside was a drawing of you — in your debut outfit, mid-performance, surrounded by stage lights. But your eyes in the sketch were sad. Lonely.

“I drew this after I saw the video,” he said. “Because I knew you weren’t celebrating.”

Hyunjin is emotional, yes — but he’s also wise beyond his years. He doesn’t push you away. Instead, he leans into his feelings, into the pain, and finds a way to make art out of it.

He asks for honesty moving forward, no matter how difficult. And you promise.

He becomes your quiet anchor — someone who understands the duality of fame and intimacy. He starts leaving notes in your bag before fanmeets, texts you affirmations after live stages, and watches your content with tears in his eyes and a smile on his lips.

Sometimes, it’s hard — when your names are trending for different reasons, when rumors swirl, when the distance grows. But Hyunjin never stops showing up. He creates playlists titled “For When You’re Tired” and draws little comics of your imaginary life if you were just two art students instead of idols.

And though he found out the truth in a way that broke his heart, he still chooses you — every version of you.

The star version of you.

And the person behind both.

Han (한)

Dating Jisung was like living in a comedy-drama series with the most chaotic yet golden-hearted lead. He was silly, loud, unpredictable — but beneath it all, he had the most fragile heart and softest soul. He constantly sought reassurance and was always the first to make you laugh when things got heavy.

You connected through mutual friends at a casual get-together, and from day one, he made it clear how serious he was about you — in his goofy, offbeat way. You’d always deflected questions about your career by saying you were “training in music production” or “working behind the scenes,” and he never pushed you too hard.

Until your debut hit the internet.

Jisung wasn’t scrolling for gossip. He was looking for new music releases when he saw the thumbnail: your name — your face — and a “Debut MV” tag.

He clicked without thinking. Half-curious. Half-worried.

As the video played and your voice rang through his speakers, reality cracked open.

His first reaction? Shock — mouth open, hands paused in midair, eyes wide.

Then came confusion. And then silence.

When you texted him later that day with a simple: “Can we talk? Please.” — he didn’t answer right away.

Not because he was angry.

Because his brain was moving at 200mph, and his heart was dragging behind.

He met you that night outside the dorms — hoodie on, hands in his pockets, face unreadable.

“You’re an idol?” he asked softly. “All this time?”

You explained everything — the contracts, the NDAs, your fear of losing him. The guilt of holding something so big back.

His lip twitched. “You thought I wouldn’t be okay with it? Or… you didn’t trust me enough to try?”

The pain in his voice wasn’t loud. It was wounded, quiet, like a joke that didn’t land.

“I tell you everything,” he added. “Every stupid fear. Every song lyric I write. Every dream. You’ve heard me at my worst.”

He wasn’t yelling. He was disappointed. And that hurt more than if he had screamed.

Jisung needs time to process. He hides in his music — writes endless lyrics about masks, mirrors, and miscommunication. He makes jokes to his members to downplay how confused he feels, but you can tell it sits heavy on his chest.

Then one night, he calls you — just your name, softly.

“Come to the studio.”

When you arrive, he plays you a demo — raw vocals, stripped beat, lyrics that feel like reading his heart on a page.

“You danced in the dark / while I thought we were in the light / I loved you blind / but now I see in black and white…”

You sit in silence when it ends.

“I wrote it the night I found out,” he says. “But it’s not a goodbye song.”

You exhale shakily. “Then what is it?”

“It’s a ‘try again’ song.”

From then on, he’s different — more open about his fears, but also fiercely protective of your dream. He teases you about “idol mode,” helps you brainstorm stage names, even gives you random awards like “Best Outfit Slay” and “Most Likely to Outshine Me.”

He’s scared, yes. But love — real love — makes him brave enough to stay.

Felix (필릭스)

Dating Felix was like basking in warmth. He had that rare kind of energy — grounding, healing, and gentle. You met during a joint industry charity event, and your connection was instant. He was attentive, deeply curious about you, and always made you feel like the most important person in the room.

But from the start, you knew he was honest to a fault. Felix didn’t play games. He gave love openly, and he expected that same vulnerability in return.

Which is why you feared telling him the truth: that you were on the verge of debuting as an idol, that your company had forbidden any public or even private relationships without disclosure, and that you were falling for him faster than you ever expected.

Felix found out through a mutual friend — accidentally.

Someone sent him a message: “Isn’t this your girlfriend?” with a screenshot of a teaser poster.

Your face. Center of a highly anticipated girl group debut.

He stared at it, brows furrowed, phone shaking in his hand.

He didn’t speak to anyone about it. He waited until he could see you.

When you met up, he didn’t waste time. He held up the image on his phone.

“You’re debuting?” he asked, tone heartbreakingly calm.

You nodded, ready for the storm. But it never came.

He took a step back, swallowing hard. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You fumbled for the words — how you feared jeopardizing your career, how you thought if you waited just a little longer, it would be easier.

“But you let me love you,” he said quietly. “Without the truth.”

The pain wasn’t in his words — it was in his eyes.

Felix isn’t someone who gives up easily. But he also doesn’t let himself be treated like an afterthought. He takes a step back — not to punish you, but to center himself.

He talks to Chan. To his sister. He journaled a lot. He tried to understand whether your secrecy was about mistrust, or fear, or something else entirely.

Eventually, he meets with you again — on a quiet rooftop, where he used to go when the trainee life felt too heavy.

“I’ve had my own secrets too,” he says, staring at the skyline. “But I’ve always believed love needs honesty, or it won’t last.”

You nod, tears in your eyes. “I’m ready to be honest. Now. With everything.”

He looks at you then — really looks. And he smiles.

Not his fan-service smile.

But his smile. The one only people he loves get to see.

“You were always a star,” he says. “I guess now the rest of the world gets to see it too.”

From that point on, Felix becomes your safest place. He watches all your stages, encourages your self-care, and finds clever ways to support you publicly without ever exposing your relationship.

He’s proud of you.

And he reminds you every day: that you can shine in the spotlight and still be held in love — safely, quietly, fiercely — when the lights go down.

Seungmin (승민)

Seungmin wasn’t the type to fall easily, but when he did, it was intentional. You’d met him through a friend who worked in radio, and what started as casual banter turned into long coffee shop dates filled with dry humor and quiet companionship.

He liked that you were grounded. You shared thoughts about music, books, even your frustrations with the entertainment industry. But whenever he asked specifics about your work, you deflected — said you were “support staff,” or “still finding your path.” He respected your privacy. He always did.

That is, until your face showed up unexpectedly on a massive LED screen in Hongdae — part of a pre-debut countdown campaign for a new girl group.

It took him a few seconds to register that it was you.

Wearing stage makeup. In costume. Smiling like the whole world was finally seeing the dream you’d been hiding.

That night, you showed up to his apartment without asking. You knew he’d seen it.

He didn’t yell. That wasn’t Seungmin.

He opened the door, stepped aside, and let you in. The silence wasn’t cold — it was focused. You sat across from him on the couch, bracing yourself.

He finally spoke, voice calm but painfully steady: “How long were you going to keep it from me?”

You tried to explain — the non-disclosure, the risk of rumors, the company’s iron grip on trainee relationships. But as you spoke, he stared down at his hands, barely blinking.

“Do you know how many people I’ve pushed away because I didn’t think they could handle my world?” he asked quietly. “I chose you. And you couldn’t even give me the truth.”

It stung. Not because he was angry — but because he wasn’t. He sounded tired.

You reached out to touch his hand, but he gently pulled it back.

“I just need time to think,” he said. “About whether we’ve both been in the same relationship this whole time.”

Seungmin goes quiet for a few days. Not out of malice, but because he doesn’t do emotional decisions impulsively. He talks to his members. He takes long walks. He listens to music without lyrics — classical, instrumental, film scores — trying to find his own voice in the noise.

Eventually, he texts you: “I want to talk. In person.”

When you meet again, he’s still calm — but different. Not guarded. Resolved.

“I’m not angry that you’re an idol,” he says. “I’m proud. I’ve always known there was something special in you.”

He takes your hand.

“But I need honesty. Even when it’s messy. Even when it might hurt.”

You promise — this time without deflection.

From then on, Seungmin becomes your quiet protector. He won’t show it in grand gestures, but in consistent ones — sending you your favorite coffee before music shows, editing your practice videos with helpful notes, reminding you not to lose yourself in the chaos of fame.

He’s still skeptical sometimes — especially when fans speculate, or when your schedules keep you apart. But his love isn’t loud. It’s reliable.

And when he sees you on stage for the first time, he smiles — not because you’re an idol, but because you’re still you. And that’s who he fell for.

I.N (아이엔)

Jeongin had always been playful, gentle, a little shy in interviews — but in real life, he’d grown into someone confident and self-aware. He laughed easily, cared deeply, and had a surprisingly steady presence beneath the youthful energy.

You met him during a vocal workshop and bonded over late-night convenience store runs and shared Spotify playlists. He admired how humble and grounded you were — never knowing that underneath it all, you were hiding a career just weeks away from exploding.

When your debut came, it wasn’t a slow reveal.

It was a bombshell.

You were the surprise center of a new girl group with a viral pre-debut TikTok campaign. Fancams. Headlines. Trending hashtags.

Jeongin was in the dorm, half-laughing with Han over snacks, when Felix’s phone buzzed.

“Wait — isn’t this Y/N?”

And the room went quiet.

He didn’t text you.

He didn’t call.

Instead, he waited — unsure whether to confront you, or wait for you to explain.

You beat him to it, showing up the next evening with a bag of tteokbokki and a soft apology.

“I didn’t mean for you to find out this way.”

His smile was polite, but distant.

“I guess I never really knew you, huh?” he said, softly.

That broke your heart more than yelling would’ve.

“I didn’t lie,” you said. “I just… hid. Because I thought if you saw the whole picture, you’d treat me like a brand, not a person.”

His expression softened, but he looked down at his hands.

“I didn’t fall for a brand,” he whispered. “I fell for someone who laughed at my dumb jokes, who sang off-key with me at karaoke, who looked me in the eye like I mattered.”

You blinked back tears.

“And you still matter,” you said. “More than any debut. More than any stage.”

Jeongin surprises you.

He’s more mature than people give him credit for. After a few days of reflection, he comes to you — with questions, yes, but also with his heart open.

He asks about your training. About your fears. About your dreams — not your image.

Once he understands it wasn’t about deceit, but about survival, he forgives you. Fully.

And from that moment on, he becomes your safe place. He checks in before every big performance. Sends you goofy voice notes to cheer you up. Hypes you up anonymously online with burner accounts. Leaves little gifts in your locker when your schedules cross paths.

But he also keeps you accountable.

“When we’re together,” he says, “it’s not idol to idol. It’s just you and me. Real. No masks.”

He doesn’t treat you like glass. He treats you like a partner. Equal. Respected.

And when he watches you on stage, he claps the loudest — not because he’s watching an idol rise.

But because he’s watching his person do what they were born to do.

[dreaming-of-tae]

♡ skz finding out they're dating an idol

How'd They Find Out? How'd They React? How'd They Handle It?

➜ fluff/angst w/ comfort . gn!reader

ch : bangchan . leeknow . changbin . hyunjin . han . felix . seungmin . i.n

warnings : emotional conflict / angst , mild cursing / intensity: (very mild) , romantic themes , mentions of fame/idol industry pressures

[﹒notes] - My first straykids post!! hope you guys enjoy this as I put a lot of time in ✩ as of now my requests are open so if you have any requests feel free to send them in~ These headcanon/stories are written in a more angsty way, because of how serious being an idol is ♡

Bang Chan (방찬)

You and Chan had been dating in private for nearly a year. It wasn’t exactly a secret relationship, but both of you kept it far away from the public eye. You were always vague about your career, describing yourself as “in the entertainment industry” but never elaborating. You always told yourself you’d come clean eventually — once the time was right.

But the truth was, you were an idol preparing to debut with a major company. And when your group finally debuted, everything changed.

The news came out not from you, but through the industry grapevine. JYP staff began murmuring about a new rookie group shaking the charts — and Chan’s ears perked up when he heard your name associated with them.

At first, he thought it was a coincidence. Maybe someone who just had the same name. But then he saw the teaser.

Your face.

Your voice.

Your debut.

He watched the performance in his studio late one night, headphones in, heart pounding. He didn't even realize he was gripping the armrest of his chair until his fingers went numb. It wasn't just that you were an idol. It was the fact that you'd kept it from him — someone who prided himself on being open, trustworthy, and understanding in relationships.

When you finally walked into his studio the next day, it was quiet. Too quiet.

He didn’t yell. Chan never did. But his silence was louder than any shouting could be.

“You debuted,” he said, not looking up from his laptop.

You tried to explain — how scared you were, how much pressure you were under, how much you wanted to tell him but didn’t want to ruin your shot or involve him in any scandal. Your voice cracked, but you kept going.

“I wasn’t hiding you, I was hiding me,” you told him, near tears.

He leaned back, staring at the ceiling, exhaling slowly.

“You know I’d never be mad at you for chasing your dream,” he said softly. “But... I thought we were in this together. I thought we shared everything.”

That line stung more than anything.

It takes time. Chan isn’t one to hold grudges, but he feels things deeply. He spends days reflecting — not just on your relationship, but on what it meant for you to feel like you couldn’t trust him with something so big.

Eventually, he reaches out, asking to meet. This time, he's warmer, a little more relaxed.

“You looked incredible on stage,” he admits, smiling shyly. “I’m proud of you.”

He apologizes for his coldness, but also asks you to let him in — even when things are messy, complicated, or scary. “We’re idols,” he says. “We know this life isn’t easy. But I want to share it with you.”

From that point on, he’s your biggest supporter — attending shows in secret, leaving notes in your dressing room when he can, and giving you vocal tips late at night.

He doesn’t love that your schedules now clash and your careers are public property, but he accepts it. Because at the end of the day, you’re still you — and he’s still the guy who fell in love with you, long before the world knew your name.

Lee Know (리노)

Minho had always suspected you were “more than you let on.” The way you carried yourself, the way you avoided certain questions, the way your phone always lit up with messages from people labeled only with emojis. You were mysterious — something he found intriguing.

You’d been together quietly for a little over six months, and while Minho wasn’t the kind of guy to push boundaries, he was observant. Very observant.

Then it happened — your group dropped a surprise debut showcase.

And there you were. Center stage. Flawless. Charismatic. An idol.

Minho sat there in his dorm room, your face filling his screen, members buzzing around him, exclaiming “Wait — isn’t that…?”

He didn’t say a word.

Just stared.

And then left the room.

You knew you had to tell him — and you were already on your way over when your phone started buzzing. A message from Minho: “We need to talk.”

When you arrived, his expression was unreadable. Arms crossed, leaning against the wall like he’d been waiting hours.

“So,” he said, voice clipped. “Anything you want to share?”

You tried to explain — the contracts, the company’s PR strategy, your own fears. But Minho’s eyebrows raised.

“Don’t tell me it was all about timing. You had months.”

His voice was sharper than usual. He wasn’t angry in the explosive way — he was angry in the quiet, disappointed way that only someone who’s truly hurt can be.

“I don’t care that you’re an idol,” he finally said. “I care that you didn’t trust me enough to be honest.”

You stood there, feeling like the world had dropped out from under you.

But you didn’t give up. You reached for his hand. “Minho… I didn’t know how. I didn’t want you to think I was using you. Or lying. Or trying to compete. I was scared I’d lose you.”

Something shifted in his expression at that.

Lee Know doesn’t forgive easily — but he does listen.

It takes a long conversation, a lot of silence, and a few sarcastic jabs (“So do I have to call you sunbaenim now?”), but eventually, he lets down the walls again.

Minho is surprisingly vulnerable when you crack through the tough outer shell. He opens up about how he’s always struggled with trust — how hard it is to feel close to people when the industry is full of masks.

“But I want to trust you,” he admits quietly, “so let me.”

From then on, he becomes fiercely protective. He never shows it in dramatic ways, but it’s there — the texts checking in after your late-night schedules, the hand squeeze before a big stage, the teasing messages when you post a killer performance.

He’ll never say “I’m your number one fan” out loud, but he doesn’t have to.

He’s the one watching your fancams at 2 AM when he thinks no one’s looking. The one who subtly retweets your group’s success through fan accounts. The one who learns your choreography just to mockingly dance it in front of you — only to get every step exactly right.

Changbin (창빈)

Dating Changbin had been like finding home. He was warm, goofy, emotionally intelligent, and one of the few idols who knew how to switch off the performance face when the cameras were gone. You met him through a mutual friend, and your relationship bloomed over late-night ramen, playlists, and gym sessions.

He knew you were “in music,” but you always steered the conversation away when it got too close to your career specifics.

You’d rehearsed how to tell him the truth so many times. But your company’s unexpected early debut announcement forced your hand before you were ready. One minute, you were planning your next date with him; the next, your debut stage was trending on Twitter.

He didn’t find out from you.

He found out on Instagram, scrolling through hashtags, when a photo of you in full stage makeup from a press showcase filled his feed. He blinked, confused.

Wait. That was you. Center stage. Surrounded by dancers. Dressed in a designer outfit.

The caption read: [Name], center of [Group Name], the next big thing in K-pop.

He sat in stunned silence, your unopened text from earlier still sitting on his phone screen.

It read: “Can we talk later tonight? Please.”

You showed up to his studio hours later, already anticipating the hurt in his eyes.

He wasn’t angry — not in the explosive sense. But Changbin felt things deeply, and that depth was now tinged with betrayal.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked softly, fingers fiddling with the drawstring on his hoodie. “Was I… just someone to pass time with until you debuted?”

You rushed to explain — how scared you were of being seen as someone using him, how your company warned you not to get involved romantically before debut, how you’d planned to tell him when the timing felt safer.

“I didn’t want you to see me differently,” you whispered.

“I already saw you,” he said. “The real you. That’s why it hurts.”

Changbin spirals a bit. Not dramatically — but internally. He overthinks, questions every moment, replays your interactions, wondering if there were signs he missed. But despite all the confusion and hurt, he doesn’t give up on you.

He just needs time.

You give him space, unsure if he’ll reach back out — but a few days later, he does. He texts you a selfie of him holding up your debut album, captioned: “I still meant it when I said I liked you. That hasn’t changed.”

When you meet again, the air is gentler. You talk — really talk. He admits his insecurities. You show him your practice clips and share how long you’ve dreamed of this.

From that point on, he becomes your unofficial hype man. He studies your choreo so he can do your fanchants, sneaks your songs into his playlists, and even writes a verse about you for a mixtape — cryptic enough not to be obvious, but personal enough that you know.

His love is loud, even if his pain was quiet. And in the end, he never stops believing in you — or the version of you he fell for long before the lights hit your stage.

Hyunjin (현진)

Being with Hyunjin felt like walking through an art museum — every moment was soaked in feeling, beauty, and subtle intensity. He was affectionate, expressive, and deeply attentive. He'd write little poems for you, draw doodles on your hands when you were bored, and always looked at you like you were a masterpiece.

You adored him for that. And it made keeping your secret even harder.

Your debut had been quietly brewing for over a year, and your company was famously strict. Dating wasn’t just frowned upon — it was a career risk. So you said nothing, afraid to jeopardize your shot or his.

But when your group's debut MV dropped and the internet lit up with reactions, it didn’t take long for Hyunjin to put the pieces together. He knew your mannerisms, your eyes, the tilt of your head. He recognized you instantly.

But what crushed him wasn’t that you were an idol.

It was that he had to find out with the rest of the world.

You found him in his apartment the next evening — music off, curtains drawn, sketchbook open but untouched. He looked up when you entered, his eyes unreadable.

“Why didn’t you trust me with this?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

You sat beside him, heart thudding, and told him everything — the fears, the company’s threats, the guilt. You confessed how each day that passed without telling him made it harder to come clean. How you hated yourself for not trusting the person who treated you like you hung the stars.

“I wanted to protect what we had,” you said. “But I ended up hurting you.”

He didn’t respond for a long while. Then, slowly, he handed you his sketchbook.

Inside was a drawing of you — in your debut outfit, mid-performance, surrounded by stage lights. But your eyes in the sketch were sad. Lonely.

“I drew this after I saw the video,” he said. “Because I knew you weren’t celebrating.”

Hyunjin is emotional, yes — but he’s also wise beyond his years. He doesn’t push you away. Instead, he leans into his feelings, into the pain, and finds a way to make art out of it.

He asks for honesty moving forward, no matter how difficult. And you promise.

He becomes your quiet anchor — someone who understands the duality of fame and intimacy. He starts leaving notes in your bag before fanmeets, texts you affirmations after live stages, and watches your content with tears in his eyes and a smile on his lips.

Sometimes, it’s hard — when your names are trending for different reasons, when rumors swirl, when the distance grows. But Hyunjin never stops showing up. He creates playlists titled “For When You’re Tired” and draws little comics of your imaginary life if you were just two art students instead of idols.

And though he found out the truth in a way that broke his heart, he still chooses you — every version of you.

The star version of you.

And the person behind both.

Han (한)

Dating Jisung was like living in a comedy-drama series with the most chaotic yet golden-hearted lead. He was silly, loud, unpredictable — but beneath it all, he had the most fragile heart and softest soul. He constantly sought reassurance and was always the first to make you laugh when things got heavy.

You connected through mutual friends at a casual get-together, and from day one, he made it clear how serious he was about you — in his goofy, offbeat way. You’d always deflected questions about your career by saying you were “training in music production” or “working behind the scenes,” and he never pushed you too hard.

Until your debut hit the internet.

Jisung wasn’t scrolling for gossip. He was looking for new music releases when he saw the thumbnail: your name — your face — and a “Debut MV” tag.

He clicked without thinking. Half-curious. Half-worried.

As the video played and your voice rang through his speakers, reality cracked open.

His first reaction? Shock — mouth open, hands paused in midair, eyes wide.

Then came confusion. And then silence.

When you texted him later that day with a simple: “Can we talk? Please.” — he didn’t answer right away.

Not because he was angry.

Because his brain was moving at 200mph, and his heart was dragging behind.

He met you that night outside the dorms — hoodie on, hands in his pockets, face unreadable.

“You’re an idol?” he asked softly. “All this time?”

You explained everything — the contracts, the NDAs, your fear of losing him. The guilt of holding something so big back.

His lip twitched. “You thought I wouldn’t be okay with it? Or… you didn’t trust me enough to try?”

The pain in his voice wasn’t loud. It was wounded, quiet, like a joke that didn’t land.

“I tell you everything,” he added. “Every stupid fear. Every song lyric I write. Every dream. You’ve heard me at my worst.”

He wasn’t yelling. He was disappointed. And that hurt more than if he had screamed.

Jisung needs time to process. He hides in his music — writes endless lyrics about masks, mirrors, and miscommunication. He makes jokes to his members to downplay how confused he feels, but you can tell it sits heavy on his chest.

Then one night, he calls you — just your name, softly.

“Come to the studio.”

When you arrive, he plays you a demo — raw vocals, stripped beat, lyrics that feel like reading his heart on a page.

“You danced in the dark / while I thought we were in the light / I loved you blind / but now I see in black and white…”

You sit in silence when it ends.

“I wrote it the night I found out,” he says. “But it’s not a goodbye song.”

You exhale shakily. “Then what is it?”

“It’s a ‘try again’ song.”

From then on, he’s different — more open about his fears, but also fiercely protective of your dream. He teases you about “idol mode,” helps you brainstorm stage names, even gives you random awards like “Best Outfit Slay” and “Most Likely to Outshine Me.”

He’s scared, yes. But love — real love — makes him brave enough to stay.

Felix (필릭스)

Dating Felix was like basking in warmth. He had that rare kind of energy — grounding, healing, and gentle. You met during a joint industry charity event, and your connection was instant. He was attentive, deeply curious about you, and always made you feel like the most important person in the room.

But from the start, you knew he was honest to a fault. Felix didn’t play games. He gave love openly, and he expected that same vulnerability in return.

Which is why you feared telling him the truth: that you were on the verge of debuting as an idol, that your company had forbidden any public or even private relationships without disclosure, and that you were falling for him faster than you ever expected.

Felix found out through a mutual friend — accidentally.

Someone sent him a message: “Isn’t this your girlfriend?” with a screenshot of a teaser poster.

Your face. Center of a highly anticipated girl group debut.

He stared at it, brows furrowed, phone shaking in his hand.

He didn’t speak to anyone about it. He waited until he could see you.

When you met up, he didn’t waste time. He held up the image on his phone.

“You’re debuting?” he asked, tone heartbreakingly calm.

You nodded, ready for the storm. But it never came.

He took a step back, swallowing hard. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You fumbled for the words — how you feared jeopardizing your career, how you thought if you waited just a little longer, it would be easier.

“But you let me love you,” he said quietly. “Without the truth.”

The pain wasn’t in his words — it was in his eyes.

Felix isn’t someone who gives up easily. But he also doesn’t let himself be treated like an afterthought. He takes a step back — not to punish you, but to center himself.

He talks to Chan. To his sister. He journaled a lot. He tried to understand whether your secrecy was about mistrust, or fear, or something else entirely.

Eventually, he meets with you again — on a quiet rooftop, where he used to go when the trainee life felt too heavy.

“I’ve had my own secrets too,” he says, staring at the skyline. “But I’ve always believed love needs honesty, or it won’t last.”

You nod, tears in your eyes. “I’m ready to be honest. Now. With everything.”

He looks at you then — really looks. And he smiles.

Not his fan-service smile.

But his smile. The one only people he loves get to see.

“You were always a star,” he says. “I guess now the rest of the world gets to see it too.”

From that point on, Felix becomes your safest place. He watches all your stages, encourages your self-care, and finds clever ways to support you publicly without ever exposing your relationship.

He’s proud of you.

And he reminds you every day: that you can shine in the spotlight and still be held in love — safely, quietly, fiercely — when the lights go down.

Seungmin (승민)

Seungmin wasn’t the type to fall easily, but when he did, it was intentional. You’d met him through a friend who worked in radio, and what started as casual banter turned into long coffee shop dates filled with dry humor and quiet companionship.

He liked that you were grounded. You shared thoughts about music, books, even your frustrations with the entertainment industry. But whenever he asked specifics about your work, you deflected — said you were “support staff,” or “still finding your path.” He respected your privacy. He always did.

That is, until your face showed up unexpectedly on a massive LED screen in Hongdae — part of a pre-debut countdown campaign for a new girl group.

It took him a few seconds to register that it was you.

Wearing stage makeup. In costume. Smiling like the whole world was finally seeing the dream you’d been hiding.

That night, you showed up to his apartment without asking. You knew he’d seen it.

He didn’t yell. That wasn’t Seungmin.

He opened the door, stepped aside, and let you in. The silence wasn’t cold — it was focused. You sat across from him on the couch, bracing yourself.

He finally spoke, voice calm but painfully steady: “How long were you going to keep it from me?”

You tried to explain — the non-disclosure, the risk of rumors, the company’s iron grip on trainee relationships. But as you spoke, he stared down at his hands, barely blinking.

“Do you know how many people I’ve pushed away because I didn’t think they could handle my world?” he asked quietly. “I chose you. And you couldn’t even give me the truth.”

It stung. Not because he was angry — but because he wasn’t. He sounded tired.

You reached out to touch his hand, but he gently pulled it back.

“I just need time to think,” he said. “About whether we’ve both been in the same relationship this whole time.”

Seungmin goes quiet for a few days. Not out of malice, but because he doesn’t do emotional decisions impulsively. He talks to his members. He takes long walks. He listens to music without lyrics — classical, instrumental, film scores — trying to find his own voice in the noise.

Eventually, he texts you: “I want to talk. In person.”

When you meet again, he’s still calm — but different. Not guarded. Resolved.

“I’m not angry that you’re an idol,” he says. “I’m proud. I’ve always known there was something special in you.”

He takes your hand.

“But I need honesty. Even when it’s messy. Even when it might hurt.”

You promise — this time without deflection.

From then on, Seungmin becomes your quiet protector. He won’t show it in grand gestures, but in consistent ones — sending you your favorite coffee before music shows, editing your practice videos with helpful notes, reminding you not to lose yourself in the chaos of fame.

He’s still skeptical sometimes — especially when fans speculate, or when your schedules keep you apart. But his love isn’t loud. It’s reliable.

And when he sees you on stage for the first time, he smiles — not because you’re an idol, but because you’re still you. And that’s who he fell for.

I.N (아이엔)

Jeongin had always been playful, gentle, a little shy in interviews — but in real life, he’d grown into someone confident and self-aware. He laughed easily, cared deeply, and had a surprisingly steady presence beneath the youthful energy.

You met him during a vocal workshop and bonded over late-night convenience store runs and shared Spotify playlists. He admired how humble and grounded you were — never knowing that underneath it all, you were hiding a career just weeks away from exploding.

When your debut came, it wasn’t a slow reveal.

It was a bombshell.

You were the surprise center of a new girl group with a viral pre-debut TikTok campaign. Fancams. Headlines. Trending hashtags.

Jeongin was in the dorm, half-laughing with Han over snacks, when Felix’s phone buzzed.

“Wait — isn’t this Y/N?”

And the room went quiet.

He didn’t text you.

He didn’t call.

Instead, he waited — unsure whether to confront you, or wait for you to explain.

You beat him to it, showing up the next evening with a bag of tteokbokki and a soft apology.

“I didn’t mean for you to find out this way.”

His smile was polite, but distant.

“I guess I never really knew you, huh?” he said, softly.

That broke your heart more than yelling would’ve.

“I didn’t lie,” you said. “I just… hid. Because I thought if you saw the whole picture, you’d treat me like a brand, not a person.”

His expression softened, but he looked down at his hands.

“I didn’t fall for a brand,” he whispered. “I fell for someone who laughed at my dumb jokes, who sang off-key with me at karaoke, who looked me in the eye like I mattered.”

You blinked back tears.

“And you still matter,” you said. “More than any debut. More than any stage.”

Jeongin surprises you.

He’s more mature than people give him credit for. After a few days of reflection, he comes to you — with questions, yes, but also with his heart open.

He asks about your training. About your fears. About your dreams — not your image.

Once he understands it wasn’t about deceit, but about survival, he forgives you. Fully.

And from that moment on, he becomes your safe place. He checks in before every big performance. Sends you goofy voice notes to cheer you up. Hypes you up anonymously online with burner accounts. Leaves little gifts in your locker when your schedules cross paths.

But he also keeps you accountable.

“When we’re together,” he says, “it’s not idol to idol. It’s just you and me. Real. No masks.”

He doesn’t treat you like glass. He treats you like a partner. Equal. Respected.

And when he watches you on stage, he claps the loudest — not because he’s watching an idol rise.

But because he’s watching his person do what they were born to do.

[dreaming-of-tae]

𐙚 bangchan

𐙚 leeknow

𐙚 changbin

𐙚 hyunjin

𐙚 han

𐙚 felix

𐙚 seungmin

𐙚 i.n

𐙚 ot8

skz finding out their dating an idol

yandere!skz hcs

[dreaming-of-tae]

HAPPY 2K QUEEN, YOU DESERVE IT!!! ♡

guys.... i literally only started posting a MONTH AGO?!?!?

WE'RE AT 2K NOW???

FIRST OF ALL THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE INSANE AMOUNT OF LOVE I'VE GOTTEN THIS PAST MONTH!!! It's actually so insane to imagine you guys loving my writing so much 😭

Hopefully you guys keep enjoying my writing 🥹🫶🏻 I eventually plan (and kind of) already started to branch out and do more fandoms! I'll try and talk/post about all of them equally as much to keep you guys entertained 🫶🏻

I have NO idea of what I should do to celebrate... but if you guys have any ideas let me know! This is like an early birthday present for me because my birthday is in five days 🥹❤️ LOVE YALL!!!!

[dreaming-of-tae]

i JUST saw your reverse kiss and make out fic and i LOVE THEM is it okay for you to do the same for the rest of the cast plssss 💖

Kiss And Makeout *FLIPPED

( ✧ ) ────── parent stories . fluff - gn!reader .

- [𝐜𝐡.] riddle . ace . deuce . jamil . idia . silver

- [𝐩:𝐬] ~Fluff with a Dash of Heat . Emotional Comfort . Bad Day Comfort (for Riddle, Deuce, Silver, Jamil) . Impulsive Behavior (Ace, Idia, Jamil) . Suggestive Themes . Kissing . Emotional Vulnerability . Anxiety/Insecurity Mention . Possessive Behavior . Flustered/Desperate Behavior . Unexpected Boldness .

Note: I think you guys want me to make a second part... but I don't know 🤭. Alright, your guys' wishes have come true! Here is part two!!! (≧◡≦) ♡ Hope you guys enjoy it like the first one~

Riddle Rosehearts

It had been one of those days. Riddle had been holding it together by the finest thread of willpower and discipline. His prefect duties had dragged longer than expected, a few underclassmen had dared to ignore the Queen’s Law No. 89 about corridor traffic flow, and worst of all, someone spilled rose jam on one of the unbirthday party table linens.

By the time you found him pacing the Rose Garden, cheeks flushed with frustration and lips pressed into a hard line, he was seconds from snapping.

“Riddle,” you called softly.

His head snapped toward you. That stern expression flickered just for a moment. “I don’t have time—”

You took a step closer. “You’re pushing yourself too hard.”

And that did it. Something broke.

Without a word, he grabbed your hand—firm, but not rough—and began walking. You barely had time to react as he led you down the corridor, past classrooms, past portraits whose eyes seemed far too nosey, and toward a supply closet tucked away behind the alchemy wing. The moment the door shut behind you, he turned the lock with a soft click.

You barely had time to question before he pinned you gently but with urgency against the shelf-lined wall. His eyes flickered with something between anger and desire.

“I need this,” he breathed, his voice strained. “You.”

He kissed you like he was trying to drown out the world. No rules. No order. Just the rush of lips on lips, and the way his hands found your waist like he was anchoring himself. Riddle wasn’t usually this desperate—not this untethered—but when your fingers tangled into his hair and you kissed him back just as fiercely, a low, almost uncharacteristic noise escaped from his throat.

One of the brooms clattered from the shelf beside you, but neither of you paid it any mind.

Minutes felt like moments. He eventually pulled back, forehead pressed to yours, breath shallow. His usually perfect uniform was wrinkled, his collar askew, hair a mess.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “That was… unbecoming.”

But you smiled, brushing a thumb over the pink hue of his cheek. “It was perfect.”

His eyes softened. “Only you can calm me like this.”

Ace Trappola

Ace had been flirting with you all day. That cocky smirk, the sly touches when no one was looking, the way he leaned way too close during lunch and whispered, “You’re making it real hard to focus, y’know.”

You’d rolled your eyes. “You never focus anyway.”

“Yeah, but now I have a good excuse.”

He’d been plotting this. You could tell by the glint in his eye—Ace wasn’t exactly subtle. So when you walked past an empty classroom on your way to your dorm and felt someone tug you by the wrist and yank you inside, it wasn’t a surprise. Not really. What was surprising was just how fast he shut the door, turned the lock, and kissed you like he hadn’t seen you in months.

“Missed you,” he mumbled between kisses, pressing you back against a desk. “Even though I literally saw you like an hour ago.”

You laughed, breath hitching as he nipped at your bottom lip. “You’re such a idiot.”

“Yeah, but I’m your idiot.” His grin turned into another kiss, deeper this time, his hands sliding along your hips like he couldn’t get close enough.

He tasted like cinnamon gum and just a little trouble.

One of his hands slid under your blazer, fingers toying with the hem of your shirt while his other hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he tilted your head to kiss you better. He kissed like a tease—playful, slow, then suddenly intense enough to leave you dizzy.

“You drive me crazy, y’know that?” he whispered against your lips. “Been thinking about this all day. Like, do you try to distract me or are you just naturally irresistible?”

“Shut up,” you muttered, pulling him in for another kiss.

He did. But not without a smug little chuckle rumbling in his chest.

Eventually, when the risk of someone catching you got just a little too real, Ace pulled back, panting and flushed. He grinned down at you, wiping a smudge of gloss from your lip with his thumb.

“We should probably go before Crowley shows up and gives me detention again.”

You smirked. “Worth it?”

“Hell yeah.”

Deuce Spade

Deuce tried. He really did. He studied for the test. He kept his nose clean. He even avoided Ace’s latest dumb scheme. But the world had other plans.

Professor Vargas announced a surprise pop quiz—on a unit they barely covered. Then a potion exploded in his face during lab. And just when he thought he could walk it off, he overheard a couple of older students talking about how “guys like him never amount to anything.”

By the time you found him hunched on a bench outside the classroom building, he wasn’t saying much. Just… clenching his fists like he was one second from punching the sky.

“Deuce,” you said gently, placing a hand on his shoulder.

He looked up, and for a second, his tough-guy mask cracked. His eyes were red. From smoke? Anger? You weren’t sure.

“I—I’m fine,” he said quickly. Too quickly. “I just—needed air. It’s dumb.”

You crouched in front of him. “What happened?”

And that did it. The floodgates opened.

He told you everything—rushed and frustrated, hands flailing as he vented. “I try so hard, but it’s like… one thing goes wrong and suddenly I’m that guy again. The delinquent. The screw-up. No one thinks I’ll ever change.”

You grabbed his hand. “I do.”

That’s when his expression shifted. Like you’d said the one thing he didn’t realize he needed to hear. And without another word, he stood up, pulled you to your feet, and led you quickly—not even glancing around—into the nearest empty classroom.

The door barely shut before he turned around, eyes stormy and locked on you.

“I… I just—can I—?”

You didn’t wait for him to finish. You kissed him.

At first, it was soft. A tentative press of lips, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed this comfort. But when you wrapped your arms around him, pulled him closer, he melted. Like all the tension had been clinging to his muscles and finally let go.

His hands found your back, sliding up slowly, as if grounding himself. He kissed you like it meant something. Like it saved him.

“I’m really lucky,” he murmured, forehead against yours. “To have you. To have… this.”

You smiled, brushing hair from his face. “And I’ll always be here to remind you—you’re not that guy anymore.”

“Not with you around,” he whispered, kissing you again—deeper this time, slower. More sure.

Jamil Viper

Jamil had been quiet all day. Too quiet.

You’d noticed it during lunch. The way he stirred his food absently, how his gaze lingered on the horizon, thoughtful and dark. Kalim had been extra excitable, and Jamil had worn that polite mask of patience, but you could tell—he was simmering underneath.

So when you caught his eye across the courtyard later, that gaze wasn’t passive anymore. It was intense. Hungry.

And when he wordlessly gestured for you to follow him, something electric sparked in your chest.

You didn’t ask where he was going. You just trailed behind him as he glided through the halls, silent but purposeful, until he reached a storage closet near the gymnasium. He opened the door, looked back at you with something unreadable, and when you stepped inside, the door shut behind you.

The dim space felt thick with heat.

“Bad day?” you asked quietly.

Jamil didn’t answer.

He pressed you back against the door so fast your breath caught. His lips were on yours a heartbeat later—silencing any thoughts you might’ve had with a kiss that was slow, dangerous, and completely intoxicating.

“I needed something,” he whispered between kisses, voice low and smooth like velvet over a blade. “Something that’s mine.”

His hands were steady, but his kiss was anything but. He kissed you like he was unraveling. Like all the things he had to hide and control every day had finally broken the surface. His body caged yours in, not out of aggression, but out of sheer desperation to feel something real—you.

You could feel the tension radiating off him. He touched you like he didn’t trust himself to go further, but couldn’t stop. One hand braced above your head, the other gripping your waist as if letting go meant returning to that carefully curated mask he wore every day.

“You always make me feel like I don’t have to keep pretending,” he murmured into your neck. “Like I can just be.”

You wrapped your arms around him, pulling him closer, whispering into the curve of his jaw. “Then don’t pretend right now. Just be here.”

He kissed you again, slower this time—full of gratitude and longing. His breathing slowed, his forehead pressed against yours.

“I should get back,” he muttered reluctantly. “Kalim’ll start searching if I’m gone too long.”

You smiled, brushing a lock of hair behind his ear. “Then let him look. Just a little longer?”

Jamil exhaled a quiet laugh, a rare, genuine sound.

“Yeah… just a little longer.”

Idia Shroud

Idia had been spiraling all morning.

The new project in Ignihyde Lab glitched hard, Ortho almost got accidentally reprogrammed, and to top it off, he overheard some random students talking about you—how “someone like you” was wasting time on a shut-in like him. That shouldn’t have mattered. But it got under his skin. It festered.

He spent the next two hours in a haze, typing too hard, muttering under his breath, eyes flicking to his tablet screen like your name might just pop up and make him feel okay again.

Then he saw you walking toward the main building. And instead of retreating like he usually would, Idia stood up, ran a hand through his electric-blue hair, muttered a string of curses about how this was “like, peak out-of-character behavior,” and bolted to intercept you.

“Whoa—Idia?” you blinked as he practically teleported in front of you. His hair glitched from neon blue to a deep pink.

“I—uh—I need you. I mean—not like that! I mean yes, like that, but—just—come with me before I short-circuit or die or implode—whatever happens first.”

You could barely laugh before he’d grabbed your wrist, nervously leading you through the winding back halls of the science wing. Your heart pounded with curiosity and adrenaline. And when he stopped in front of a rarely used equipment storage room, unlocked it with trembling fingers, and stepped inside with you—oh. You knew what this was.

The second the door shut behind you, he turned to face you. Pink light flickered wildly in his hair.

“I-I don’t know how to do this kind of thing,” he admitted, words rushed. “But I’ve been thinking about kissing you all day and I feel like my brain’s doing that ‘blue screen of death’ thing because—holy crap—look at you.”

He hesitated. But you stepped closer, brushed your hand over his hoodie-clad chest, and smiled.

“Then stop thinking.”

That was all he needed.

He kissed you like he was afraid he’d glitch right through you. Soft at first—shy, hesitant, stuttering against your lips like a program still loading—but then something changed. His hand slid around your waist, and he groaned softly against your mouth as he leaned in, lips parting with yours like he’d forgotten everything but this moment.

The taste of cola from his favorite energy drink lingered faintly on his tongue. His other hand came up to cup your cheek, surprisingly warm despite how jittery he was, and he tilted your head like he was learning how to really kiss you.

“Is this okay?” he whispered, breathless.

“It’s perfect,” you murmured, brushing your nose against his.

He smiled—a real one. Soft. Rare. Beautiful.

“Achievement unlocked: Most Unbelievable Moment Ever.”

Silver

Silver usually wore serenity like a second skin—calm, gentle, a touch sleepy. But sometimes, sometimes, something inside him cracked through that dreamy exterior. Especially when he was exhausted, emotional… or desperate for you.

You noticed it after a long, grueling day of training with Lilia. Silver had taken on too much—again. You caught him nodding off in the garden, sword still in hand, posture rigid even in sleep. When you knelt beside him and gently touched his shoulder, his eyes snapped open—cloudy, tired, but focused on you.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice rough. “Come with me.”

You barely had time to respond before he stood, took your hand, and started leading you. His fingers were warm but firm. There was something off—different. Not bad. Just… intense.

“Silver?” you asked softly.

“I had a dream,” he murmured. “You were in it. And when I woke up, you were here. And I… couldn’t tell if it was still a dream.”

The hallway was quiet. He led you into an unused classroom, probably one of the knight training theory rooms, filled with old armor and worn-down desks. He locked the door behind him.

Then he turned to you, his eyes darkened with exhaustion and longing.

“Let me stay here a while,” he whispered. “With you. Like in the dream.”

Before you could reply, his lips were on yours—slow, deep, full of emotion. It wasn’t rushed. It was aching. Like every part of him had been waiting for this. His hands were gentle as they cupped your waist, pulling you flush against him, and he kissed you like someone who dreamed of this moment too many times to waste it now.

His breath hitched when you kissed him back, and his hand slid up your back, burying into your hair, holding you there like he needed to make sure you were real.

“I’m always slipping between sleep and wake,” he murmured into your skin. “But this? This is the clearest I’ve felt all day.”

You felt your heart squeeze at the quiet vulnerability in his voice. His forehead rested against yours, and you swore you saw the faintest smile curve his lips.

“If this is a dream,” he added, eyes fluttering shut, “don’t wake me up.”

[dreaming-of-tae]

HIYYA :)! i’ve been very into the childhood!best friends to lovers, so could i ask for that with: the itoshi brothers, karasu, and yukimiya. thanks so much :))

Childhood Friend To Lover

( ✧ ) ────── boyfriend stories . fluff - gn!reader .

- [𝐜𝐡.] sae . rin . karasu . yukimiya

- [𝐩:𝐬] emotional isolation . parental neglect . fame pressure . angst . unspoken love . kissing . family conflict . emotional withdrawal . self-doubt . loneliness . injury . trauma

Note: This scenario with them is so cute 😭I can imagine them falling in love with someone from their childhood (Especially Rin & Sae). And them falling in love with you even more during Blue Lock when they're away from you is just- ugh 😔.

Sae Itoshi

You and Sae had been inseparable since you were kids. Your houses were right next door in the quiet suburbs of Kanagawa, and your days were filled with scraped knees, shared snacks, and endless soccer matches in the park with Rin trailing behind like a determined shadow. Sae was calm and sarcastic, even back then — a little aloof, a little too smart, but he always waited for you. Always passed the ball to you first.

He was your best friend. Not in the silly, fleeting way kids say it, but the kind of best friend who snuck out to watch meteor showers with you at 3 a.m., who came to your room when his parents fought, who said nothing but always made you feel better. He always noticed when you were off — always read your silences. You never had to say much. Sae just got you.

You were the only one who saw him cry when he got selected for Spain. He looked at you like the world was ending. “I want to go,” he’d whispered, “but I don’t want to leave you.”

So he left — and didn’t look back.

For five years, you didn't speak. He didn’t answer your texts, didn’t come home during the holidays. Rin got colder. You moved on, or at least tried. But Sae was a phantom presence in everything — in the sound of the wind at night, in the rhythm of a soccer ball bouncing on concrete. You never stopped wondering what you did wrong.

And then one summer evening, he returned.

You heard his voice before you saw him — deeper, a little wearier. “You still suck at headers,” he said from behind you on the field. And there he was, tall, handsome, different — but with the same sharp eyes and infuriating smirk. Your chest ached. You hated him. You missed him.

The first few weeks were awkward. You didn’t know how to act around him, and he acted like no time had passed. He still remembered your favorite ramen order, still teased you in that infuriating, gentle way. But sometimes his gaze lingered a little too long. Sometimes he touched your wrist and didn’t let go. You caught him watching you like he was searching for the version of you he left behind — or maybe falling for the one you’d become.

One night, during a storm, you found him outside your window, soaked to the bone.

“I don’t want to be alone anymore,” he said, voice cracking. “Not in Spain. Not here. Not anywhere.”

You let him in.

Sae kissed you like he’d been waiting his whole life for that moment — desperate, slow, reverent. All those years of silence and missed moments melted into one long, trembling kiss in the dark of your bedroom.

“You waited for me?” he asked, forehead against yours.

“I never stopped.”

Rin Itoshi

You and Rin Itoshi were neighbors in a sleepy coastal town, where soccer balls thudded against concrete and cicadas buzzed like background music. You met him before the world broke him, before Sae left and shadows curled beneath Rin’s eyes.

As kids, you’d race your bikes to the beach, dig your toes into the sand, and talk about your future. Rin always wanted to be better than his brother. Always. But he was softer then—shy, thoughtful, and surprisingly funny when he let his guard down. You were his person—the one who’d read manga with him, patch up scraped knees, or drag him out for ice cream when his parents argued about Sae’s rising fame.

When Sae left for Spain without a word, Rin shattered.

He withdrew, colder, sharper. Soccer became war, and every smile became a rare relic. But not with you.

You were the only one he didn’t push away.

He’d show up outside your window at night, bruised knuckles, sweat still clinging to his collar. He wouldn’t talk. He’d just sit, knees pulled up, letting the silence wrap around him like armor—until you offered a blanket or held his hand under the stars.

In high school, you noticed how his eyes lingered on you longer. How he’d get strangely protective, narrowing his eyes at anyone who flirted with you. How he looked at you like you were the last safe place he had.

But Rin didn’t believe in love. Not really. Not when he thought everything he cared about left him. Soccer was the only thing that made sense. Until you.

When Blue Lock called, he told you through gritted teeth. “I have to go.”

You didn’t cry. You just handed him a small photo—your favorite picture of the two of you from the beach, back when he smiled more easily.

“I’ll be waiting.”

He didn’t reply. Just nodded, jaw tight, and turned away.

But he wrote. Every week. Long, messy letters with doodles in the margins and awkward attempts to describe his days. “I got MVP. Still doesn’t feel like much.” “Missed your dumb seaweed riceballs today.” “Saw the ocean and thought of you.”

When he returned, taller, sharper, eyes colder—you were still there.

And when he saw you on that same beach, holding the photo he left behind, Rin cracked. Dropped his bag. Pulled you into a hug so tight it hurt.

“You waited,” he whispered.

“I told you I would.”

And under that fading orange sky, he kissed you—gently, almost like he was afraid you’d disappear. His hands trembled. But you held him like always.

Now, years later, every time he scores a goal and lifts his eyes to the stands, he looks for you. The one who never left. His first friend. His last love.

Karasu Tabito

Karasu Tabito wasn’t exactly a “good kid” when you met him. You were both nine—him with a black eye, a split lip, and a crooked grin that said, “yeah, I got into a fight again.”

He got into trouble before he got into soccer—always the one with smart remarks, messy hair, bruised knuckles, and a grin that didn’t quite match the pain in his eyes. You were the quiet kid, the one who read too much and liked watching clouds. Total opposites. Yet somehow, you ended up being his anchor.

Maybe it started because you were the only one who didn’t treat him like a delinquent. Or maybe it was the day you shoved a bandage into his hand after yet another brawl, mumbling, “Stop bleeding all over the classroom, idiot.”

From then on, you were his person.

Every rooftop lunch. Every call after a terrible day. Every silent moment where he could just be without pretending to be cool or invincible.

Karasu was chaos—but around you, he calmed.

He got into soccer on a dare. Typical. But he was good, terrifyingly so. His reflexes were sharp, instincts sharper. He played like he lived—unpredictable and fast. He got serious about it in middle school, and you were the first person he told.

“I wanna go pro. Is that stupid?”

“No,” you’d said. “It’s the first thing I’ve ever seen you care about.”

By high school, Karasu was popular, loud, magnetic—but no one knew him like you did. They didn’t know how he called you every night when his parents fought. How he’d show up at your house drunk off energy drinks, just needing someone to talk him off the ledge. How he watched you when he thought you weren’t looking—like you were the only thing that kept him tethered.

And yeah, maybe you started to feel it too. That flutter. That ache when he leaned too close. The way your name sounded different in his mouth than anyone else’s.

But Karasu was scared. Love wasn’t something he trusted. So he flirted with others, acted like it was nothing—but never crossed that line with you.

Until one night—your last summer before Blue Lock, when he climbed up to your window at 1 AM, eyes wide, adrenaline crackling in the air.

“I got in,” he whispered. “Blue Lock chose me.”

You hugged him, heart racing. “I’m proud of you.”

And then—you pulled back, eyes locked, and suddenly, it wasn’t pride buzzing in the air—it was years of tension, laughter, comfort. And he kissed you. Not soft or sweet—desperate, like he’d wanted to for years but never dared.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispered against your lips. “But if I figure it out—I want it to be with you.”

He left the next morning with a crooked smile and a promise.

Now, whenever he scores a goal, he still mouths your name. Still sends you blurry pictures and dumb jokes. Still calls you when he can’t sleep.

Because even when the world calls him unpredictable—you were always his constant.

Yukimiya Kenyu

Yukimiya Kenyu was beautiful. Not just in the model-boy, camera-ready way—but in how he moved, how he spoke, how he existed. You knew him before the world tried to sculpt him. Before the illness. Before the fame.

You were his next-door neighbor in Kyoto. From childhood, you saw the boy who pressed flowers in books, cried at sad manga endings, and whispered prayers at the shrine on his way to school. He was fragile, even then. Asthma. Weak lungs. A shadow that always loomed—but he never let it stop him.

He loved soccer even when it hurt. Even when it meant collapsing on the field.

You were always there—at the edge of the pitch, with your backpack full of inhalers and water bottles and unwavering belief.

As you both grew, so did your bond. He was gentler than the other boys. Sensitive, graceful. But behind that softness was steel. Yukimiya wanted it. Badly. To prove he wasn’t weak. To become more than his illness. More than the pretty boy.

“I don’t want people to look at me and only see fragile,” he told you once under a cherry tree in spring. “I want to be limitless.”

And you believed him. Every step of the way.

Then came the diagnosis. His vision—going. Not yet blind, but the edges were starting to blur. He told you in a whisper, like a secret shame.

You cried. He didn’t.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said. “I’m still me. I’m still going to play. Even if it kills me.”

When Blue Lock summoned him, he hesitated. Not out of fear—but because he didn’t want to leave you behind.

So you kissed him.

Right there, by the train station. Years of buried feelings blooming like wisteria.

“I’ve loved you since we were thirteen,” you said. “Go. I’ll be here. I’m always here.”

And he went. With tears in his eyes, clutching your confession like armor.

In Blue Lock, he fought with elegance and fury. Not just for a goal—but to deserve you. To be strong enough for love.

Now, he still calls you when he has flare-ups. Sends you photos of sunsets he can barely see. Draws you in his notebook, even as his lines grow softer, blurrier.

When he makes the national team, he finds you in the crowd. He can’t see your face clearly anymore—but he feels you.

And in his arms, after the match, he says, “Even if the whole world fades… I’d know your heartbeat anywhere.”

[dreaming-of-tae]

i dont know if your requests are open but if they are can you pretty please make a part 2 of the how they'd propose to you with other characters like Sebek and Ruggie and anyone else you would like? (⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)

How'd They Propose To You

( ✧ ) ────── boyfriend stories . fluff - gn!reader .

- [𝐜𝐡.] cater . ruggie . floyd . kailm . vil . rook . idia . lilia . sebek

- [𝐩:𝐬] nothing . just the boys being romantic

Note: Part two!! Here we go! Also everyone, get your tissues out cause this is going to be an emotional one.. 😭

Cater Diamond

Cater always made everything look effortless. From his impeccably filtered Magicam photos to his playful, lighthearted persona, he was the guy who breezed through life like a summer wind — colorful, vibrant, and hard to pin down. But the moment he realized he wanted to spend his life with you, the thought terrified him. Not because he didn’t want it — but because he did.

You’d been together for a while, enough to see past his curated charm and into the subtle sadness he kept hidden behind his eyes. You saw the moments when his smile faltered just a second too soon, when he stared at old class photos for a beat too long, when he tried too hard to make everyone like him. And despite it all, or maybe because of it, you stayed. You loved him, not the persona.

He wanted to return that love with everything he had.

So he planned it down to the second. Not flashy, not performative, but genuine. A proposal just for you two — no hashtags, no likes, no audience.

You were led on a surprise “casual date” through campus, each place tied to a memory: the greenhouse where you first studied together, the corner of the courtyard where you surprised him with lunch one day, the little music room where you once caught him playing guitar alone. At each spot, he left a small printed Polaroid of the memory, with scribbled notes like “Can you believe you caught me blushing here?” or “Still the best sandwich I’ve ever had, btw.”

Finally, you arrived at the abandoned tower that overlooked the rose gardens. It was dusk — golden hour. A string of soft lights framed the edge of the balcony, and a blanket lay spread out with two drinks, his favorite strawberry soda, and your favorite too.

Cater stood there, not in any extravagant outfit, but in his everyday clothes, a little flushed, a little nervous. His Magicam was nowhere in sight.

“I know I’m not always easy to read,” he began, eyes softer than you’d ever seen them. “I’m a master of filters. And honestly? I’ve spent most of my life trying to be someone that other people like. But with you… I don’t have to be anyone else. You make me feel like being just ‘Cater’ is enough.”

He knelt, pulling out a small velvet box that he almost dropped because his hands were shaking.

“So… if you’ll have me, for all the mess, the moods, and the million selfies — will you marry me? And keep reminding me that being myself is okay?”

His voice cracked, and you could tell it wasn’t a line rehearsed for flair. It was Cater Diamond, bare and honest.

You said yes, of course.

And that night, he took one photo — just one — of the two of you silhouetted against the golden light, laughing through your tears.

No filters. No edits.

Just love.

Ruggie Bucchi

Ruggie Bucchi never thought he’d be the type to propose. Where he came from, marriage was practical, not romantic. You partnered up, you made it work, and you did your best to survive. Love? That was a luxury. He grew up knowing how to scrape by, how to hustle, how to keep smiling when your stomach was empty.

But then he met you — and everything shifted.

You saw past his tricks and street-smart charm, past the sly grin and the mischievous glint in his eyes. You saw someone capable. Someone worth loving, not just useful. And that meant more to him than he ever let on.

He saved for months. Scrimped every madol he could without you noticing. Side jobs, extra errands, even turning down a few schemes with Leona when they felt too risky. He wanted this to be his, something he earned with his own effort. Not flashy — but real.

One day, he invited you to his hometown. He played it off as casual — “Hey, wanna see where the magic began?” — but you could tell he was more nervous than usual. His tail twitched a little more. His jokes came faster. He wouldn’t meet your eyes for too long.

You arrived in the Slums of the Sunset Savanna, where he grew up. It was loud, dusty, and full of kids shouting and running barefoot in the alleys. But Ruggie looked… peaceful. At home. He gave you a tour like it was the royal palace — proudly showing you the bakery where he got day-old bread, the crumbling wall he used to climb for fruit, the school where he taught himself to read better.

That evening, he brought you to a quiet hill just outside the neighborhood. It overlooked the city, bathed in orange from the setting sun.

There was a picnic spread, nothing fancy — some homemade snacks, cold drinks, and a little bread pudding he tried (and failed) to make look neat. The bread was a little burnt. He kept muttering that it wasn't perfect.

And then, out of nowhere, he said:

“Y’know… I used to think I’d just grow up, keep scrappin’ my way through life, maybe end up old and alone with a bunch of stolen pies under my belt.”

He laughed awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck.

“But then you came along and messed it all up — in the best way.”

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a tiny, slightly lopsided ring box. Inside was a simple band with a small, pale gem. Not expensive. Not glittery.

But made with his whole heart.

“I don’t got a palace. I don’t got riches or magic castles or nothin’. But I got you, and I wanna spend every day makin’ you smile. So… what do you say? Wanna keep causing trouble together… forever?”

His ears were flat against his head, and his tail was still as stone.

When you said yes, he lit up like the stars were inside him.

And he never stopped smiling after that.

Floyd Leech

Loving Floyd was like dancing with a storm: unpredictable, wild, sometimes overwhelming — but breathtakingly beautiful. He could be sweet one second, biting the next, and then melting into your arms like seafoam. And through it all, there was something real behind his mercurial moods — a strange, raw devotion that ran deeper than the ocean.

So when Floyd started acting… weirdly consistent, you knew something was up.

No wild mood swings. No threats to squeeze someone into a pretzel. Just this quiet intensity in the way he looked at you, like he was memorizing your every blink.

He’d drag you along for “dates” that were more like mini adventures: exploring underwater caves off the Coral Sea coast, racing each other through twisted kelp forests, picnicking on giant sea turtles (you hoped it was legal). He’d laugh, splash you, nibble your ears when you weren’t looking — but then fall completely silent when you watched the sunset over the waves.

That silence carried something unspoken. Something serious.

Then one day, he brought you to the edge of the Mostro Lounge after hours. No lights. No music. Just the dark water shimmering under moonlight. Jade had subtly cleared the area, probably under Floyd’s “friendly encouragement.”

Floyd stood by the pool, barefoot, wearing loose, sea-salt-dried clothes. He looked wild and untamed, like he’d just swum from the abyss.

“Ne~ shrimpy,” he started, voice low and lilting. “You really stuck around this long, huh?”

He didn’t look at you at first. He stared at the water, watching it ripple like something might rise from it.

“Most people get scared. They say I’m too much—too loud, too weird, too hard to keep up with. Even Jade gets tired of me sometimes, y'know?”

He turned, and for once, his eyes weren’t playful. They were clear — crystalline, serious.

“But you… You let me be me. Even when I’m a pain in the tailfin.”

He stepped forward and pressed a tiny shell into your hand. At first glance, it looked ordinary — until it opened with a soft click, revealing a shimmering, black pearl nestled in its center like a star trapped in the deep.

His hand slipped into yours, fingers squeezing tight.

“So, what d’ya say? Wanna be my forever shrimpy? I can’t promise I won’t get bored sometimes or drag you into weird stuff… but I can promise I’ll never leave. ‘Cause when I say you’re mine, I mean it.”

He grinned then — sharp teeth and all — but there was a rare softness to it.

When you said yes, he scooped you up, twirled you into the air, and shouted your name into the sea breeze like it belonged to him now.

Because, well… it did.

Kalim Al-Asim

His love was the kind of love that sparkled — joyful, loud, radiant. He loved with everything. And when he realized he wanted to spend the rest of his life with you, there was no hesitation. No fear. Just overflowing excitement and the desire to make it perfect.

So naturally… the entire city had to know.

You started noticing little hints. He’d smile at you longer than usual. Ask strange questions like “What’s your favorite kind of flower, just hypothetically?” or “Do you like fireworks or doves better? No reason!”

But the day of the proposal? He kept it hidden perfectly.

You were invited to a “casual dinner” at the Al-Asim family estate — nothing fancy, he swore! When you arrived, the garden was transformed into something out of a dream: floating lanterns bobbed gently in the air, casting a golden glow; fragrant jasmine vines curled around the trellises; rose petals lined the walkways in careful spirals.

And in the center of it all stood Kalim, wearing a white and gold sherwani embroidered with intricate sun motifs — custom-made, obviously.

He took your hand and pulled you close, his smile so big it looked like it hurt.

“Surprise!! Okay okay, I know I said this wasn’t a big deal, but I might’ve lied a little,” he admitted, practically vibrating with excitement. “I wanted this to be special. Because you are.”

He led you through the garden, pointing out little scenes — memories you’d shared together recreated in glowing, magical dioramas. The first time he gave you a ride on his flying carpet. The time you accidentally got stuck in the rain together and danced anyway. Even the first time he tripped and landed face-first in a pile of fruit during a festival. Each one floated in a soft golden shimmer like preserved dreams.

Finally, at the very end of the path, the lights dimmed. Music began — a quiet, melodic tune played by a live ensemble hidden behind silk screens.

Kalim dropped to one knee, pulling out a ring so stunning it looked like it belonged in a treasure vault: warm rose gold shaped like the sun, with a diamond center surrounded by sunstone and opal, glowing faintly with enchantment.

His voice trembled slightly, but his eyes never left yours.

“I know I’m… a lot. Loud, excitable, maybe too much sometimes. But my heart? It’s yours. Every day. Every moment. I want to fill your life with so much joy you forget what sadness feels like. Will you… will you marry me?”

You could barely answer before fireworks burst overhead in a dazzling cascade of color — forming your name, a heart, and then the words “Will You Marry Me?” again for good measure.

He laughed, teary-eyed, pulling you into a spinning hug the moment you said yes, nearly tripping over a pile of lanterns.

And he swore — over spiced sweets and glowing stars — that loving you would always be the most joyful celebration of his life.

Vil Schoenheit

Vil Schoenheit had always been perfection incarnate.

He chose his words carefully, curated his life down to the last detail, and ruled over every room he entered with grace and quiet authority. But love? Love was unpredictable. Messy. Vulnerable.

And yet… with you, he chose it anyway.

For months, he kept the idea of proposing buried beneath a polished exterior. Not because he doubted your love — no, never that — but because he feared imperfection. What if the moment wasn’t enough? What if his words failed him? What if he wasn’t enough?

But one morning, as you were wrapped in a robe, sipping tea while lazily flipping through one of his scripts, looking utterly unbothered by the world — his world — he knew. No stage could rival this.

Still… he had to make it perfect.

The proposal wasn’t sudden. It unfolded like a symphony — days of subtle preparation, each moment building toward the crescendo. First, a handwritten invitation slipped under your door, sealed with gold wax in his personal crest. It read:

“You are cordially invited to an evening of celebration — for a love that deserves the finest stage. Wear what makes you feel radiant. The rest… is mine to handle.”

You arrived at a private rooftop garden in the heart of Maquillaville— Vil’s favorite filming location. Every inch of it had been transformed: strings of enchanted lights that pulsed like heartbeats, violet roses laced with flecks of gold, a crystal runway leading to a single, candlelit platform under the stars.

Vil stood at the end of it, not in a costume, not in a role — just himself. Beautiful, yes, but bare. No stage makeup. No lenses. Just Vil, with his natural elegance and a look in his eyes like he was seeing you and only you.

As you approached, music swelled from invisible instruments — soft piano and violins, as if the stars themselves were holding their breath.

Vil took your hands, his thumb stroking your wrist gently.

“I have played many roles,” he said quietly. “A prince. A villain. A monarch. But none… none compare to the part I’ve played in your life — myself. No masks. No script. You have loved me.”

He lowered himself to one knee, not out of tradition, but reverence. The ring was an opalescent band shaped like a flower in full bloom — not ostentatious, but hauntingly beautiful. Regal. Just like him.

“And I want to spend the rest of my days proving that I am more than a face on a screen. That I am yours — wholly, imperfectly, and honestly. Will you marry me, my dearest?”

Your yes was the kind of answer that echoed through your soul. And when you kissed — fireworks didn’t go off.

But you could’ve sworn the stars shifted.

Rook Hunt

To love Rook Hunt was to walk the edge of obsession — not in a dangerous way, but in a way that made you feel seen. Utterly seen. No piece of you, no habit or flaw, escaped his gaze. And he loved every detail with fervor and poetry.

So, when Rook decided to propose, it wasn’t a question of if or even how. It was a question of when the moment would feel like destiny.

And he waited for it with the patience of a hunter watching from the trees — breathless, quiet, focused.

It came during an autumn evening. The forest outside campus was bathed in gold and amber light, the air crisp and still. He asked you to take a walk, his tone casual, but there was a certain gleam in his eyes. The kind that made your heart stir.

He led you into the woods, deeper than usual, through a path dappled with falling leaves and faint trails of candlelight — candles placed just out of reach, like fireflies guiding you toward something sacred.

Eventually, you came upon a small, open glade. In its center stood a circle of white lilies and dried pampas grass, arranged with almost ceremonial care. Strings of paper birds fluttered from the trees — cranes, owls, hawks — each meticulously folded and each with a word written inside: Admiration. Fascination. Devotion. Enchantment.

You turned to Rook, who now stood behind you with that soft, unreadable smile.

“Mon trésor,” he breathed, voice velvet-smooth. “You are my greatest muse. The most magnificent mystery I’ve ever encountered. I have followed your footsteps, your laughter, your sorrow — and I find myself always… captivated.”

He circled around you like a dancer, his hand brushing your cheek, then resting over your heart.

“To hunt is not merely to chase — it is to understand. To behold. And I understand now that no beauty compares to yours. No thrill equals the way my heart stirs when you smile.”

Then, with the flourish of a magician revealing his final act, he drew from his coat a black-velvet box — aged and worn, like an heirloom passed through generations. He knelt, the golden leaves falling around him like confetti from the sky.

Inside, the ring was unlike anything you’d seen: a twisting band of silver and moss-green enamel, crowned with a delicate white diamond shaped like a feather — symbolizing the pursuit, the admiration, and finally, the surrender.

“Would you, my radiant one, do me the indescribable honor… of being mine, forever? Not as prey. Not as an object. But as the one I choose to walk beside, for all my days?”

When you said yes, Rook exhaled — deeply, reverently — and kissed your hand as if pledging allegiance to a monarch.

Idia Shroud

Proposal? Marriage? Social interaction? That was high-tier anxiety content for him. Even the thought of confessing to you, back when it all started, had nearly sent him into a shutdown spiral.

But now, here you were — his person. The one who understood his silences, who gamed beside him through 72-hour dungeon crawls, who sat beside him in eerie, comforting stillness while the blue glow of his hair flickered in thought. Loving you felt like logging into a private server only the two of you could access — quiet, secure, and safe.

And Idia, for all his dramatics and gloom-posting, loved you with an intensity that didn’t need fanfare. Just… data. And intention.

So, when he decided to propose, he made it a quest.

Literally.

You received a handmade invitation on your phone one morning: "Player 2, your presence is requested for a legendary raid. Final boss: Emotional Vulnerability. Rewards: Eternal Love + Rare Ring Drop. Do you accept?"

He built the whole thing himself: a pixel-art RPG styled just like your favorite fantasy games. The title? “Shroud.exe: A Love Story.”

As you played through it, you encountered your story together — from your first awkward hangouts in the Ignihyde dorm, to the moment you held his hand during a panic attack, to every late-night cuddle session where his hair dimmed peacefully beside you. Every NPC was a digital recreation of your favorite characters (Ortho, obviously, had an adorable role as the overly enthusiastic love-coach sidekick).

Each level was built with custom dialogue, full of Idia’s signature wit and fourth-wall breaking commentary:

“This is the part where MC doesn’t leave me despite my trash social skills. Truly S-tier behavior.”

“Warning: Final boss approaching. His defense stats are ridiculous but he’s got a glass heart. Weak to unconditional love.”

Finally, at the end of the game, the final cutscene began. And instead of sprites on screen, the video feed switched to live camera.

There he was.

Idia. Sitting in his room. Nervously fiddling with something in his hands — a small velvet box. His flame-hair flickered erratically, and he was in a carefully chosen outfit you’d never seen him wear before. Formal, but still unmistakably him.

He looked directly at the camera — right at you.

“I, uh… I figured I should do this in a way that makes sense for me. For us. Not in some overhyped, real-world, normie way with candles and violins and… people.” He cringed just saying that last part.

“But I wanted it to be real. So… here I am.”

He opened the box with trembling fingers. Inside was a ring shaped like a circuit loop, inlaid with glowing lapis and delicate code etchings — the ones you both designed together for fun once. The pattern pulsed faintly with light.

“I’m not good at words IRL, but I can say this: You’re my favorite co-op partner. You made all my side quests feel like main storyline material. So, will you… like, marry me? And maybe keep patching me for the rest of our lives?”

You didn’t even need the dialogue box to appear.

You just whispered "Yes" to the screen — and moments later, Ortho popped into the game world cheering with pixel fireworks in the background.

You looked up — and there Idia was, standing awkwardly in your doorway, holding the ring in real-time. Blushing furiously. Looking like he’d risked everything.

And when you kissed him — he glitched. Heart racing. Code crashing.

And he didn’t want to reboot. Ever.

Lilia Vanrouge

He had watched centuries pass like seasons. He’d lived through empires and starlight, laughter and war. He’d known many things — joy, grief, loyalty, loss — but love? True, soul-deep love? That was rare. Precious.

You, however, had changed that.

He never planned to fall for you. It simply happened. Like a song that begins as a hum and ends in a chorus that takes your breath away. With every shared moment — your laugh, your clever comebacks, your kindness — you pulled him out of memory and rooted him firmly in the now.

And so, one day, when the time felt quiet and right — he began to prepare.

The proposal wasn’t flashy. It was intimate. Lilia’s style had always been part mischief, part myth, part poetry. And so, he invited you to a place he hadn’t shown anyone in centuries.

A clearing deep within Briar Valley’s forest — hidden beneath vines and weeping trees, where the moonlight filtered through like silver lace. Fireflies lit the air in lazy constellations. In the center stood an old, stone ruin covered in moss — a place once sacred to the fae.

Lilia held your hand and stepped into the clearing with you, a small smile on his lips.

“Do you know what this place was?” he asked, voice soft like dusk. “It was a fae courting ground. We used to come here when we were ready to say, ‘This is it. This is the one I’ll write songs about.’”

You blinked at him — heart stuttering.

He stepped back from you, then lifted his hand. Magic shimmered like crushed moonlight around his fingers. With one slow motion, the ruins bloomed to life — glowing vines wrapping around pillars, flowers that hadn't blossomed in centuries opening in a swirl of glowing petals. The whole grove sighed, as if exhaling from a deep sleep.

“I’ve done many things,” Lilia said, stepping closer again, eyes shining. “I’ve lived through battles and lullabies. But I’ve never done this. Never wanted to. Not until you.”

He reached into the folds of his cloak and pulled out a delicate silver ring carved in the shape of intertwined bat wings and thorns, centered with a faintly glowing green stone that looked like a captured firefly.

Kneeling — he looked up at you, unguarded and eternal.

“You have made my immortality feel like a blessing again. Would you walk with me through what years I have left, and let me love you through each one? Will you marry me?”

The forest held its breath with you.

When you said yes, his smile was the softest thing you’d ever seen. He pulled you close — kissed you slowly — and whispered, “Then we’ll write a love story even time won’t forget.”

Sebek Zigvolt

For a long time, Sebek Zigvolt didn’t understand love. Not in the way he understood duty, or training, or the fierce loyalty he bore for Lord Malleus. Love was… unpredictable. Emotional. Disruptive.

But when he began to feel it — first in small ways, like watching you speak with others and getting irrationally flustered, or the way your touch lingered in his mind for days — he was angry at it. Frustrated.

And yet, you stayed. Through his yelling, his dramatics, his constant declarations of greatness on behalf of Malleus. You never teased him. You understood him.

One evening, after an exhausting mission outside Briar Valley, you found him standing guard alone under a stormy sky — soaked, grim, but stubborn as ever. You put your cloak around his shoulders and stood beside him in the rain.

He never forgot that moment.

It was when he realized: You are who I want to stand beside forever.

Sebek’s proposal took months of planning. Everything had to be worthy — of you, of his feelings, and of the future he wanted to protect. He asked Lilia for advice (and immediately regretted it after hearing “fake dragon attack for dramatic flair” — no thank you), trained twice as hard every morning, and spent evenings carving something in secret.

When the day came, he invited you to the castle gardens of Diasomnia at sunrise. The sky was still dark and quiet, a soft mist curling between hedges and dragon statues.

Sebek stood waiting at the center, in formal attire — the ceremonial armor of the Draconia Guard, silver and forest green, etched with runes that glowed faintly with magic. He turned when you arrived, eyes wide and serious, breath fogging in the cold air.

“I… I wanted to say this in the place where my heart was forged — under these towers, in these shadows, where I learned what it meant to serve.”

He stepped forward, taking your hands in his own — warm despite the chill.

“But then I met you. And I learned something greater than duty. I learned love. Fierce. Relentless. Protective. The kind I would fight for. Die for. Live for.”

From his belt, he drew a small box. Inside it was a ring made from polished emerald steel — hand-forged, slightly rough around the edges, but unmistakably beautiful. It bore his family crest inside and tiny runes around the band for strength, loyalty, and passion.

“I will not promise perfection. I am loud. I am difficult. But I swear to be yours with every heartbeat I have. To protect, to cherish, and to learn. Always.”

He dropped to one knee — knight-like, formal, trembling — and looked up at you as though you were the most sacred being in the world.

“Would you do me the extraordinary honor… of becoming my partner? My future? My heart?”

Your “yes” rang through the mist like sunlight.

When he stood, his composure nearly broke — eyes damp, mouth trembling — and when he kissed you, it was with the passion of someone who had finally learned what it meant to love freely.

And though he never said it aloud again in front of others — in private, every night after, he whispered: “Thank you for choosing me.”

[dreaming-of-tae]

how would the Heartslabyul guys react to finding out their s/o goes to RSA? Like they hid it from them because they where scared of finding out 👀

Finding Out That Their S/O Goes To RSA

( ✧ ) ────── boyfriend stories . drama/soft angst - she/her .

- [𝐜𝐡.] riddle . ace . deuce . cater . trey

- [𝐩:𝐬] hurt/comfort . lying . nrc vs rsa rivalry . romantic drama .

Note: I honestly really love the idea of one of the guys dating someone from RSA, cause it just adds so much drama between the two schools (¬‿¬ ). This also turned out to be more angsty then I was kinda hoping Σ(□_□) , but I still liked the outcome.

Riddle Rosehearts

Riddle wasn’t used to being blindsided. He ran a tight ship—rules, order, discipline. That’s what made things work. That’s how he kept control over chaos. Over disappointment. Over his heart.

So when he saw the letter in your hand—elegant, sealed with the unmistakable crest of Royal Sword Academy—he froze.

You noticed instantly. The way his eyes locked onto it like a hunter spotting prey. “Riddle—”

“Is that from RSA?” His voice was sharp. Measured. A warning bell in his tone.

You hesitated. That was your first mistake.

“…It’s mine,” you said finally, softly. “I… go there.”

His lips parted in disbelief, like you had just told him you were a traitor to his face. “You’re an RSA student?”

“I didn’t tell you because I was scared you’d react like this.”

He stepped back, the red of his hair blazing in the moonlight. “Scared? Then you knew it was wrong.”

“No! I just—” you paused, trying to find the right words. “I wanted you to like me, not where I’m from. You’re so proud of NRC, Riddle. You’re the heart of Heartslabyul. I didn’t think I could ever fit into your world if you knew I was from theirs.”

He looked like you slapped him. “So you lied.”

“I protected us,” you whispered.

But Riddle couldn’t hear it. Not yet. His mind was spiraling. RSA. Trein’s lectures about their rivalry. Crowley’s bitter remarks. Trey’s side-eye anytime the topic came up.

“Every rule has a reason,” he said, almost to himself. “Every truth matters. And you didn’t trust me with yours.”

You felt your throat tighten. “Riddle, I love you. But I was scared that loving me wouldn’t be enough once you knew.”

And then—just for a second—his walls cracked.

He looked at you, truly looked, and the fight drained from his face. “I don’t care that you’re from RSA,” he said, voice trembling. “I care that you thought I wouldn’t fight for you.”

Silence stretched, thick as fog.

“…Would you have?” you asked.

He walked to you, slowly, like stepping through a minefield. Then he took your hand. “Yes. Every time. No matter the badge you wear.” He looked down. “I just wish you believed that.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too,” he whispered. “I should’ve made you feel safe enough to tell me.”

You leaned into him, your head on his shoulder. For once, the rose garden was quiet—no rules, no orders. Just two hearts finally being honest.

Ace Trappola

Ace always prided himself on being sharp. A quick wit, quicker comebacks, and definitely smarter than he let on. But somehow, you had managed to completely fly under his radar. His girlfriend. His smart, stylish, gorgeous girlfriend, who always had this mysterious glow about her—the one who “went to a different school” and could never study with him on NRC campus.

He thought it was quirky at first. Maybe even hot. But then he saw the badge poking out from your purse when you turned your head to answer a text. That glossy RSA emblem glinting like it was mocking him.

At first, he just… stared.

RSA? Royal Sword Academy? You?

You noticed immediately. “Ace,” you started, that perfect voice suddenly unsure, “I can explain—”

He laughed. Sharp, surprised, almost disbelieving. “So that’s the big secret? You’re one of them?”

You tried to reach for his hand, but he stepped back. It wasn’t anger in his face—it was hurt. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“I didn’t want to lose you.” Your voice was soft. “You know how NRC and RSA are. I thought you’d hate me if you knew.”

He scoffed. “I don’t care about that.” He did. Kind of. But not in the way you feared. “I care that you lied to me. You’ve been… what? Pretending to be from nowhere? Slipping out after dates like Cinderella?”

You crossed your arms, frustrated. “I was scared, Ace! You hate those guys. You’ve said it a million times. I didn’t want to ruin what we had just because I’m technically your rival.”

His jaw tensed. “You’re not my rival. You’re my girlfriend. Or… I thought you were.”

Silence stretched between you. The air felt thick.

Then he ran a hand through his hair, muttering, “I can’t believe I didn’t see it. No wonder you always walked with that stuck-up RSA posture.”

You laughed, despite yourself. “Are you calling me stuck-up?”

He shot you a look. “I’m calling you too perfect to be real. Figures you’re from a school that polishes halos.”

“…So do you hate me?”

His eyes softened. “No. I’m just pissed that you didn’t trust me.” He exhaled, long and slow, then finally reached out and took your hand. “But you’re still you. And that’s the girl I fell for. RSA badge or not.”

“Even if your dormmates roast you for dating the enemy?”

He smirked. “I’ll roast them back harder.” He leaned in close, nose almost touching yours. “Besides… we’ll just make it a secret relationship again. Like spies. Or star-crossed lovers. Kinda sexy, if you think about it.”

You giggled, leaning into his kiss. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re mine,” he said. “Even if you do wear that hideous uniform.”

Deuce Spade

“Tell me the truth. You go to RSA, don’t you?”

His voice was trembling, hands clenched at his sides. You’d never seen Deuce like this—this serious. Like the truth might break him.

You swallowed hard and looked away.

He already knew.

You could see it in his eyes, the betrayal, the confusion. The gears in his head spinning so fast, trying to make sense of the math that didn’t add up.

Your bag had spilled open in his room earlier while you were looking for your perfume. And in that innocent chaos, your student ID had slid out.

Royal Sword Academy.

You hadn’t even noticed until he went quiet. Until he held it up with wide eyes and a stunned expression, like he didn’t believe what he was holding.

And now here you were—standing in Ramshackle’s dusty hallway, trying to figure out what to say.

“…I do,” you whispered. “I go to RSA.”

His jaw tensed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I knew this would happen,” you said softly. “I knew you’d look at me like I was the enemy. And I’m not, Deuce. I’ve never been.”

“But why lie?” he asked, stepping back. “You could’ve just told me from the start.”

“I wanted to. So many times. But then I saw how everyone at NRC talks about RSA—like we’re all spoiled, soft, fairy-tale kids who don’t know how to handle ourselves. I didn’t want you to think I was… less.”

“Less?” Deuce echoed, eyes wide. “You think I’d ever think that about you?”

You looked down. “You’re proud of this place. Of who you’ve become here. And I didn’t want you to think I was just playing pretend in your world. I didn’t want you to feel like I didn’t belong with you.”

There was a long pause. Deuce stared at you, shoulders still tense.

Then, in a quiet voice: “I don’t care what school you go to. I care about you.”

You looked up, surprised.

“I mean, yeah, I’ve always been a little competitive,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay, a lot competitive. Especially when it comes to RSA. But that’s just… school rivalry stuff. I’d never throw away what we have because of a name on your ID.”

Tears pricked at your eyes, relief flooding your chest.

“You’re not mad?”

“I was,” he said honestly. “Mostly because I thought I didn’t know who you really were. But then I remembered… you’re the girl who helped me study for Trein’s exam. Who brought me food when I skipped meals. Who walked all the way from your campus to NRC in the rain just to see me on my bad days.”

He stepped forward, cupping your cheek gently.

“I know exactly who you are. And no rival school is gonna change that.”

You laughed, leaning into his touch. “So… we’re good?”

“We’re better than good,” he smiled, pulling you into a hug. “But you are gonna have to tell me everything about that school. I wanna know what I’m up against when I challenge them in the next inter-school competition.”

“Already planning your next duel, Spade?”

“Only if you promise to cheer for me. Loudly.”

You smirked. “Loudly and stylishly.”

Cater Diamond

Cater had always been a little hard to read, but that was part of the charm. One second he was all smiles and selfies, and the next he’d go quiet, just watching with those sharp amber eyes like he was trying to read your mind. You had always thought he was too perceptive for his own good—until now.

Because somehow, somehow, you had managed to date him for nearly three months without him realizing you didn’t go to NRC. You went to Royal Sword Academy. The "rival" school. The one filled with boys like Neige, soft and sweet and disgustingly charming in a way that made NRC students roll their eyes.

You had good reason to lie—or rather, avoid the truth. NRC students didn’t exactly love RSA. And Cater? He was always surrounded by people, easily swayed by public opinion, by his image. You didn’t want to ruin what you had. So you never wore your uniform around him, always met off-campus, told half-truths about your classes and teachers. You even blurred your location on Magicam.

You didn’t think it would come out like this, though.

“Cater?” you said nervously, seeing his eyes go wide as he looked at your student ID that had fallen out of your bag. You had fumbled for it, but it was too late.

"Wait, wait, babe... This says... RSA? Royal Sword Academy?"

There was a silence that fell between you like a fog.

“I can explain,” you said quickly, but Cater just laughed—a sharp, startled noise, not his usual sing-song chuckle.

“So that’s why you never let me visit your campus,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “You lied about what school you go to? That’s not like, a little white lie, Y/N. That’s huge.”

“I was scared,” you admitted, twisting your fingers together. “Everyone at NRC acts like RSA is some kind of joke. I thought if you knew, you’d treat me differently. Or worse, you'd leave.”

Cater’s expression softened, but only a little.

“Okay, okay... I get that,” he said, voice quieter. “But you didn’t trust me. That’s what stings the most.”

He looked down, biting his lip.

“I’ve always shown you the real me. Even when it’s messy. I thought we had something honest.”

You stepped forward, gently taking his hand.

“We do. I just... didn’t want to risk losing you.”

He exhaled hard, eyes closing. Then, finally, he opened them and gave you a soft smile.

“Well... you’ve got some serious guts, girlie. Hiding all that and still making time for me? Iconic.” His smile turned wry. “But next time, just tell me the truth, okay? I can handle it. Promise.”

He pulled you into a hug, whispering, “My girlfriend goes to RSA... damn, the tea’s hot today.”

Trey Clover

Trey wasn’t the type to raise his voice. He was calm, level-headed, the type of guy who baked tarts when he was stressed and solved problems with quiet wisdom. But the way his shoulders tensed as he stared at your RSA pin told you everything you needed to know.

You had dropped your cloak while visiting him in the Heartslabyul kitchen. He’d picked it up for you—gentle, polite—and that’s when he saw it: the neat, gold-embroidered RSA insignia on the collar.

“Is this a joke?” he asked softly, though there was no humor in his voice.

You froze. “Trey, I—”

“Please don’t lie to me now.”

The words hit like ice. You had always admired that about him—how he could say so little and make it feel like everything.

“I go to RSA,” you said finally, quietly. “I didn’t tell you because... I didn’t want to lose you.”

Trey set the cloak down carefully, his movements controlled. Too controlled.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “We’ve been dating for months, Y/N. I’ve let you into my dorm, introduced you to Riddle and the others. I’ve told you things I don’t tell anyone. And all this time, you’ve been hiding something that huge?”

“I didn’t lie,” you argued, though your voice cracked. “I just didn’t say it.”

He looked at you then, and his eyes were sad. “That’s still a lie.”

There was a beat of silence, thick with disappointment.

“Do you know how hard it is to earn trust at NRC?” he asked, voice low. “Everything here is about hierarchy. Power. Control. When I met you, it felt like a break from all that. Like I could be myself. And now I find out you’ve been pretending this whole time.”

Your throat tightened. “I wasn’t pretending to love you. That part was real. Every second.”

He looked away, jaw clenched. “I believe you,” he said after a pause. “But I need time.”

You stepped forward. “Trey—”

He turned back to you, softer now. “I still care about you. That hasn’t changed. But if we’re going to move past this, I need to know that you’ll be honest with me. No more secrets.”

You nodded, feeling the weight in your chest loosen just slightly. “Okay. No more lies.”

He offered a small smile—tired, but real—and reached for your hand. “Then let’s start over. You, me, and the truth this time.”

[dreaming-of-tae]

heloo!! how are you ? Hope you are doing just finww! Btwww can i request ? I saw your masterlist and saw the Sakamoto dayss !

There's no one request any of it sooo i wantt to try ! Can you do shishiba, nagumo, and gaku with gn!reader finding out what their real job is? Like the character has been dating the reader for years now and lied to the reader about who they actually are, the reader is a bit oblivious and trusts the characters so much. But one day the reader somehow finds out about it and everything that the characters have been hiding from the Reader, the reader was heartbroken and raging mad by this and decided to confront them when the characters are back home ! Like the reader then start making it the first time they have a huge argument angst-hurt-comffort- maybe fluff ?

Finding Out About Their Real Job

( ✧ ) ────── boyfriend stories . fluff/romance - gn!reader .

- [𝐜𝐡.] shishiba . nagumo . gaku

- [𝐩:𝐬] Violence (mentioned) . Emotional distress . Cursing – mild to moderate (especially in Gaku’s) . Angst-heavy themes – betrayal, identity crisis, moral conflict . Hurt/Comfort . Mentions of death/murder . Yelling and emotional arguments

Note: I'm doing fine ty for asking!! Also... MY FIRST SAKAMOTO DAYS REQUEST!! Yayy, I hope this turns out alright since I've never written for them before (*´▽`*)

Shishiba

It started with a phone. A slip-up. A careless buzz of a message preview he forgot to hide.

You hadn’t meant to snoop — you trusted Shishiba, more than anyone else. For years now, he’d been your rock: grumpy, low-talking, dry sense of humor, but deeply, fiercely loyal. You thought you knew him. Thought he was just quiet, a little odd, and worked in some low-key "logistics" company. The kind that made him come home late and tired, sometimes with a few bandaged knuckles and a gruff "work sucked."

But the message said otherwise.

“Target eliminated. Next assignment in 48 hours.”

Your heart plummeted. You’d felt the shift in the air like a guillotine above your head. You started digging.

It was all there, just beneath the surface. Old case files buried online. News clippings that didn’t quite match up. Disappearances. Rumors of a man with a blunt weapon and a cold gaze — matching his build, his face, down to the scar near his eyebrow he never explained.

And suddenly everything made sense — the bruises, the absences, the walls he never let you touch.

When he came home that night, you were waiting in the kitchen, the glow of your laptop casting hard light across your features. You didn’t speak right away. You couldn’t.

Shishiba paused when he saw you. His whole body went still, like a predator clocking that something was wrong.

"…You’re up late."

You turned the laptop toward him. His own photo stared back. Wanted. Assassin. “This you?”

His jaw tightened. "I can explain."

"No,” you snapped. “No more lies, Shishiba. I trusted you. You said you were just a normal guy with a stressful job. Not a— a killer!"

Silence thickened the air. He didn’t try to lie. Didn’t even flinch.

"I didn’t want you to get involved,” he said. His voice was low, even, like it always was — but now, it felt like it was made of cold steel. “I kept you out of it for a reason."

"You lied to me for years." You stood up, voice breaking, "I defended you when my friends said something was off. I told them they didn’t know you like I did. But they were right. I didn’t know anything."

Shishiba's shoulders slumped, a rare crack in his usual stoicism. He stepped forward, slowly, like you were a wounded animal ready to bolt.

"I wanted to protect you. That world? It eats people alive. I kept you out so you’d be safe.”

Your breath hitched, fury giving way to something heavier, more hollow. “You let me fall in love with a lie.”

He reached for you, hesitant. For once, there was emotion in his eyes — not fear, not regret, just longing.

“I didn’t lie about how I feel about you. That’s the only part that’s always been real.”

You turned your face away, trying not to sob. “Do you even regret any of it?”

His hand curled into a fist at his side. “Every time I had to wash someone else’s blood off before holding you. Every time I watched you sleep and thought, she deserves someone better. Every damn day.”

Silence again.

Then you said, voice small, "So what now? You keep going out there, killing people, and I pretend not to know?"

“No,” he said, walking closer. “I’ll walk away.”

You looked at him sharply. “What?”

“If it’s the only way to keep you — to earn your forgiveness — I’ll walk away from it all. The JAA. The killing. Everything.”

You could see the weight of that promise in his face. It wasn’t easy. For someone like him, walking away wasn’t just dangerous — it was nearly impossible. But he meant it.

Your eyes welled up. Despite everything, you wanted to believe him. Needed to. You crossed the distance slowly and finally let yourself fall into his arms. He held you tighter than he ever had.

“…Don’t lie to me again,” you whispered against his chest.

“I won’t,” he murmured, resting his chin on your head. “Never again.”

Nagumo Yoichi

You always thought there was something off about the way Nagumo smiled. Too perfect. Too easy. But you chalked it up to his charm. After all, how could someone who brought you midnight ramen, danced with you in the living room, and whispered ridiculous jokes to make you laugh at 3AM, be hiding something that dark?

But today, the smile cracked.

You were out getting groceries when you saw him — not your Nagumo, but a side of him you never imagined. Drenched in blood, a blade in hand, moving like wind and shadow. You barely ducked behind the alley corner in time. Watched him finish the job. No mercy. No hesitation.

You felt like you couldn’t breathe.

You went home numb, groceries forgotten. You couldn’t even cry yet — it was too surreal.

He strolled in hours later, smelling of rain and metal. "Yo~ I’m home!" he sang out like always.

You didn’t answer.

He walked into the living room and paused when he saw you, back straight, face pale.

“…Babe?”

“You kill people.” The words felt foreign in your mouth, like poison.

Nagumo blinked. That smile — the fake one — faltered for a second before he recovered. “Well, I prefer the term ‘strategic freelance relocation specialist,’ but—”

“Don’t joke!” you screamed, eyes blazing. “I saw you.”

He froze.

You watched his expression drop — all of it. The smile, the teasing glint in his eyes. Gone. What remained was raw, unfiltered Nagumo: cold, sharp, ancient.

“…I didn’t want you to see that.”

“No kidding.” Your voice trembled. “You’ve been lying to me this whole time. Everything you said, everything we’ve built — was that just part of your cover?!”

“No!” He stepped forward. “God, no. You’re the only real thing I have. The only part of me that isn’t wrapped up in blood and masks.”

You laughed bitterly. “Funny. I don’t even know who you are.”

Nagumo looked like you slapped him. For the first time, he didn’t have a quip, a grin, a slick lie. Just… sorrow.

“I thought I could keep both lives separate. Keep you untouched. Clean. But I was wrong. You deserved the truth, and I was a coward.”

Tears finally welled up in your eyes. “I loved you. Love you. But I don’t know how to trust you anymore.”

He knelt in front of you, quietly. “Then let me start over. Not with some mask — just me. As I really am. Tell me what I need to do, and I’ll do it.”

“…Even if it means giving this all up?”

He looked at you, and for once, there was no joke behind his words.

“I’d burn the whole underworld down if it meant keeping you.”

You let yourself cry into his shoulder then, and he held you tighter than ever, hand trembling against your back.

That night, he didn’t joke once. He didn’t smile that fake smile. He just stayed, and for the first time, you felt like you were finally meeting the real Nagumo.

Gaku

You always knew Gaku was a bit… strange.

His unpredictability came with the package. You’d met him in the most unlikely way—some run-in at a ramen shop that turned into late-night motorcycle rides, street food dates, and the kind of chaotic love that made your heart race. He was reckless but never careless with you. Wild, but always home by sunrise with bruised knuckles and a lazy grin. He told you he worked freelance security. That it was dangerous but legal. You believed him.

Because loving Gaku meant trusting him through all his chaos.

Until the lie bled through the cracks.

It was a stupid thing — a news report flashing on your phone while you were cleaning. A blurry security cam photo, a body in a warehouse, and a figure you recognized too well. That coat. That gait. That grin.

You didn’t want to believe it. But deep down, you’d always wondered what he did when he disappeared for days. Why his smile sometimes didn't quite reach his eyes when he got back. Why he avoided certain topics like they were landmines.

You dug. You connected dots. And it all shattered.

Gaku wasn’t just some sketchy guy with a weird job.

He was a killer. A monster.

And he’d been lying to you for years.

When he came home that night, you were already pacing.

Gaku swung the door open, humming to himself, slinging his jacket off with that boyish, disheveled look that made your heart ache now more than ever.

“Yo, babe—guess who scored free gyoza on the way home—?”

“Don’t. Say. Anything.”

His eyes locked onto yours instantly. The smile dropped.

You held up your phone. The blurry security cam photo still glowed on the screen. “Explain this.”

A beat of silence.

Gaku didn’t flinch. Didn’t move.

"...Where’d you get that?"

“You didn’t even try to hide it,” you spat. “You lied to me. Over and over. Every time I asked where you were, who you worked for—what you do. You looked me in the eye and fed me bullshit.”

He was quiet. Watching you like a cornered animal.

You stepped closer, voice trembling now. “What are you, Gaku? Who the hell did I fall in love with?”

“…You fell in love with me,” he said, voice low. “And I never lied about that.”

“No!” you yelled. “Don’t twist this. You’ve killed people, Gaku! God knows how many! And you brought me into your life like it was normal—like I wouldn’t find out!”

The anger cracked then, letting the pain bleed through. Your voice broke. “I trusted you. I loved you. And you just… kept lying.”

Gaku’s expression shifted — not regret, not guilt, but something quieter. Like something was unraveling inside him.

“I didn’t want you to see that part of me,” he said finally. “’Cause if you did, you’d look at me like this.”

“…Like what?”

“Like I’m a f*ckin’ monster.” His voice was hoarse now. “Like I don’t deserve you.”

You looked away. “Maybe you don’t.”

The silence after that was deafening.

Then, Gaku laughed — not his usual sharp, unhinged kind. This one was hollow. Broken. “Guess I always knew this was coming. Just didn’t think it’d hurt like this.”

You swallowed, throat raw. “So what now? You keep pretending this life doesn’t touch me? That you can keep killing and come home and hold me like everything’s fine?”

“I didn’t come home to pretend,” he said, stepping closer. “I came home ’cause it’s the only place I feel human.”

That stopped you.

He stared at you with something raw in his eyes — the real Gaku. No mask. No wild grin. Just a man standing in front of the one person who could ruin him with a single word.

“I’m not a good man,” he said. “But I swear, I’ve never lied about how I feel about you. I wanted to keep you safe — keep you clean. If I’d told you the truth, you would’ve run.”

“I might have!” you cried, tears finally falling. “But at least it would’ve been my choice!”

He froze at that.

“…I don’t know if I can forgive you,” you whispered. “Not yet.”

“I don’t need forgiveness,” he said, voice quiet. “I just need you to know — if it came down to it, I’d burn the world down for you.”

You stared at him, your chest aching, every emotion clashing inside you. Rage. Grief. Love.

So much love it hurt.

Finally, slowly, you stepped forward, your hand hovering near his chest.

He didn’t move.

You laid your hand over his heart. It was pounding.

“You can’t keep doing this, Gaku,” you said softly. “You can’t keep being two people. Not with me.”

He nodded once, something like fear flashing in his eyes. Not fear of you — fear of losing you.

“I’ll figure it out,” he said. “I’ll fix it. I’ll change. Just… don’t go. Please.”

It was the first time he’d ever begged. The first time you saw Gaku truly afraid.

You didn’t answer. You just leaned into his chest, letting your forehead rest against him.

And for once, he didn’t make a joke. He didn’t try to charm you. He just held you, arms wrapped tight, like he was holding onto the only thing that could keep him from falling apart.

Because maybe he was.

[dreaming-of-tae]

HAVE TOU CONSIDERED. doing this kiss and make out prompt but flipped? i.e. THEY drag you into a closet/classroom to kiss kiss fall in love? I imagine for some chars. it would be the result of a bad day and for others just ‘cause!.

ANYWAYS. sorry if your requests are overloaded. just. an idea. <3 love your writing!!!! Ty for your service 🙏🙏

Kiss And Makeout *FLIPPED

( ✧ ) ────── boyfriend stories . fluff/romance - gn!reader .

- [𝐜𝐡.] leona . jade . floyd . vil . malleus . lilia

- [𝐩:𝐬] Intense kissing/makeout . Physical intimacy (non-explicit) . Sudden physical contact/grabbing . Slight unpredictability (Floyd being Floyd) . Mild dominance/control . Reader being pinned against a wall briefly . Slight possessiveness . Teasing/biting .

Note: Guys I know the tags are misleading into it being borderline 'smut' but I PROMISE it's just suggestive 🙏 . Also I kinda cooked with this one 😍

Leona Kingscholar

The sun’s slanting low across the Savannaclaw dorm courtyard, casting long shadows that stretch like sleepy lions. You're on your way to the library, arms full of notes for a shared class—when a familiar, rough hand loops around your wrist from behind.

"Oi," Leona drawls, already half-lidded, already smirking. “Ditch whatever you’re doing.”

Before you can argue—he’s pulling you along, not with urgency, but with that effortless kind of command only he seems to exude. You try to complain, maybe mention that you’ve got work to do, but his reply is a chuckle as dry and warm as the desert wind.

You end up in an unused classroom—somewhere tucked behind the alchemy wing, the door creaking faintly shut behind him as dust motes swirl in the light. The desks are all pushed to the back, stacked like towers of forgotten effort, and Leona leans against one, dragging you in with a lazy tug around your waist.

“You’ve been ignoring me,” he accuses, voice low and thick, like he’s half-asleep—but his golden eyes are very, very awake.

"I was studying," you breathe, barely getting the words out before he pulls you in the rest of the way.

His mouth finds yours with that slow-burning hunger that always leaves your knees weak. He kisses like he fights—possessive, measured, and way too confident. His hand slides up your back, keeping you flush against him, as if he’s daring you to try pulling away. You can taste the heat of the afternoon sun still clinging to his skin, that wild-sand scent of him curling around your senses.

Leona kisses like it’s something he deserves. Like you’re a prize he’s claimed and won’t be returning. He pulls back only to speak against your lips.

"You smell like ink and stress. I'm fixing that."

The makeout drags on—longer than you should allow. One of your hands ends up tangled in his hair, the other fisted in the fabric of his uniform coat. He doesn’t stop until you’re breathless, dazed, lips tingling.

When he finally lets you go, he’s got that smug grin, even as his thumb brushes your lower lip. “There. Now you’ve got something better to think about than test scores.”

You try to glare at him, but your heart’s still beating way too loud in your ears.

And Leona? He just stretches and yawns like this was all part of his nap schedule.

Jade Leech

It starts off innocently enough. You’re helping Jade carry potion ingredients to one of the smaller prep rooms near Octavinelle—some obscure mushroom extracts and strange marine flora with names you can't even pronounce. The corridor is damp and quiet, the kind of silence that feels like it’s listening.

Jade says something—soft, quiet, amused—as he opens the storage room. His eyes linger on you for a second too long, and that’s when you should’ve known. There’s something in the glint of his gaze, the way his smile stretches a touch too wide, his fingers brushing yours as he takes the last jar from your hands.

Then, click. The door closes behind you.

“Jade?” you ask, blinking in the dim glow of the potion room’s crystal lights.

His hands are on your waist in the next breath, fingers curling like vines. “Forgive me,” he says, voice smooth and deadly charming. “But I’ve been thinking about kissing you since this morning’s lecture.”

He tilts his head, watching your reaction with those sharp, mismatched eyes. You barely get out a sound before he leans in—and then his mouth is on yours, cool and commanding. Jade kisses with precision. Like he’s studied every reaction you’ve ever had, and now he’s crafting the perfect blend of teasing and temptation.

One hand stays on your lower back, the other rises to cradle your jaw as he deepens the kiss, drawing you further into him like the tide. There’s something unnerving about how calm he remains—even as his lips part yours, even as your breath hitches and your knees threaten to give way.

He chuckles softly against your mouth.

“Your heartbeat is quite fast,” he whispers, brushing his lips along the corner of your mouth, then to your neck. “Are you afraid? Or simply excited?”

You can’t answer—not with your brain fogged by the taste of him, the feel of his hands, the delicious chill of his voice echoing in your ear. The room smells faintly of sea-salt and mushrooms, and something deeply Jade—subtle, spiced, unsettling in the most intoxicating way.

Eventually, when he pulls back, your lips feel swollen and your thoughts scattered.

“You’re such a curious creature,” he murmurs, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes. “I should study you more often.”

You stumble out of that room later looking like you just got hit by a spell—and Jade? He walks out perfectly composed, with that same unnervingly polite smile on his face. Like he didn’t just wreck your entire nervous system with his mouth.

Floyd Leech

The day is too normal. You can feel it in the air—like the calm before one of Floyd’s storms.

You’re just walking past the Octavinelle hallway, when you feel arms suddenly wrap around your shoulders from behind—too fast, too tight, too Floyd.

“Shrimpyyyyyy~!” he sings against your ear, his voice stretching like taffy. “There you are~!”

You barely have time to react before he’s pulling you sideways—off course, off balance, and into some small, cramped janitor’s closet. It smells like cleaning supplies and old sea salt, and Floyd's eyes gleam in the dark like a predator who’s just cornered something tasty.

“Floyd, what are you doing—?”

“Shhhh,” he hums, pressing a finger to your lips. “I was bored.”

The door clicks shut behind him. You're trapped between the wall and Floyd’s looming grin.

“But now I’ve got you, and you’re way more fun.”

His hands are already on your waist, sliding under your jacket like he owns every inch of your skin. His lips crash into yours like a riptide—wild and messy and Floyd. There’s no rhythm, no pause, just overwhelming sensation. Teeth nip at your bottom lip. A low growl of amusement vibrates in his chest when you gasp.

He pulls back just an inch, enough to look at your kiss-swollen lips and flushed face. “Aww, lookit you,” he coos, voice syrupy and sharp. “All red like a little shrimp. Cute.”

You barely have time to reply before he's kissing you again, harder this time, like he’s trying to claim the breath from your lungs. The tight space only makes it hotter—his body pressed up against yours, nowhere to escape, nothing to focus on but the wild way he kisses you like he might eat you and like he might never stop.

At some point, his hat falls off, and your shirt is rumpled, and there’s laughter—his and yours—mingling between kisses. Floyd stops only when he feels like it, which means you’re left dazed and breathless while he sways lazily, totally unbothered.

“Mmm. You’re fun. Let’s do this again tomorrow, kay?”

He presses a soft, playful kiss to your cheek before throwing open the closet door like you weren’t just making out like lovesick criminals.

You’re pretty sure you’re not getting anything productive done today.

Vil Schoenheit

It happens during a late-night rehearsal.

Vil’s been directing the stage club with sharp eyes and sharper critique, and you’ve been running lines off to the side, helping, watching, admiring. He’s in his element—glowing even under harsh fluorescent lights, every motion graceful and deliberate. But every now and then, his gaze flicks toward you. Not long. Just a glance. A pause.

When the rehearsal ends and the others file out, exhausted and murmuring, Vil’s hand brushes yours as you help him gather props.

"You," he says, not even looking at you—just feeling you there. “With me.”

You blink, confused, but follow him anyway, up toward the costume closet at the back of the auditorium. The second the door clicks shut, he turns sharply, and suddenly, the air is very different.

“You’ve been distracting me all night,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Do you enjoy driving me to the edge of my focus?”

“Vil—”

His name barely leaves your lips before he kisses you—hard, precise, intentional. There’s no hesitation, no test run. His mouth is demanding, confident, and so, so good. His fingers slip under your jaw, tilting your head just so, like he’s posing you for a photo—only this time, the only thing he’s interested in perfecting is the sound of your breath catching under him.

You make a small sound in the back of your throat and he hums approvingly.

“Pretty,” he says against your lips, voice like silk with thorns. “But I want more.”

You gasp when he kisses you again, this time deeper—pressing you gently but firmly against the back wall, surrounded by velvet capes and half-hung feather boas. His scent—rosewater, powder, and something earthy—completely envelopes you, and all you can think is that this is Vil, and he’s kissing you like he’s crafting a masterpiece.

When he finally pulls back, your lipstick’s smudged (if you had any on) and your knees are weak. He brushes your hair back into place with meticulous fingers and studies your flushed face with faint amusement.

“Tch,” he clicks his tongue, smoothing the collar of your shirt. “You’re an absolute mess. Honestly.”

But there’s a light in his eyes—a smug satisfaction—and before you can respond, he kisses you again, slow and teasing this time, like a reward.

As you leave the closet, he doesn’t hide the slight smug curve of his lips.

“You’ll be thinking about this all night,” he murmurs—and he's right.

Malleus Draconia

It starts with a storm. Of course it does.

You're walking across campus in the early evening, books tucked under your arm, clouds brooding overhead like they’ve been watching you. The wind picks up suddenly, ruffling your hair—and before you can even think of running for cover, a familiar voice calls your name.

You turn, and Malleus is already there.

There’s always something otherworldly about the way he appears—silent, graceful, like a dream blooming out of mist. “You're walking alone,” he says, like it's a crime. “Come. You'll catch cold.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to reply before he gently takes your wrist and leads you to a tucked-away building near the edge of campus—a half-forgotten stone structure, unused, echoing with the scent of dust and damp air. He pushes open the creaking door to a tiny, empty classroom. The windows rattle as thunder rolls in the distance.

“You shouldn’t wander in the storm,” he murmurs, voice deep and rich with ancient cadence. “Something might take you.”

And then he steps closer—like the storm outside is leaking into the room through his presence. He watches you carefully, like he's weighing the moment, deciding something. His hand lifts—long fingers tracing the edge of your jaw so lightly it gives you chills.

“I’ve been… yearning,” he confesses softly, the word hanging in the space like lightning just before it strikes. “May I…?”

You don’t have time to respond before he kisses you.

Malleus kisses with reverence—slow, deliberate, almost ceremonial. Like he’s not just kissing you—he’s binding you, like this moment is a spell only you and he will remember. His lips are cool at first, but warmth builds quickly, rushing into your chest as his hand slips around your waist to draw you closer.

He holds you like something precious—untouchable to the rest of the world. One hand pressed flat against the small of your back, the other cradling your face like he’s afraid you might vanish. His mouth moves against yours with growing intensity, every brush and sigh and pull deepening into something devastating.

The thunder cracks again, louder now.

“You’re trembling,” he whispers against your lips.

“No, I’m—” But you are. Whether it’s from him or the kiss or the storm, you’re not sure.

He leans in again, his forehead resting against yours.

“If I could… I would steal away time itself to keep us like this,” he murmurs, voice thick with emotion that you can feel in his chest.

And in that moment, as lightning streaks across the sky outside the window, you almost believe he could.

Lilia Vanrouge

It happens so suddenly—because that’s just how Lilia is.

One second, you’re sitting together in the music room, flipping through a book while he plays idle chords on the piano. His voice is humming softly to the melody, his eyes flicking toward you now and then with a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You feel it building—the way his gaze lingers longer, the way his fingers slow on the keys.

Then he stops playing entirely, shuts the piano lid, and smirks.

“Hmm… I think I’ve been very patient today.”

You blink. “Patient for what?”

“Oh? You haven’t noticed?” His grin sharpens like a blade. “How disappointing.”

He stands, strides across the room in two steps, and loops his arms around you before you can react. You let out a soft laugh, but he’s already hoisting you up and carrying you—not out of the room, no, but across to a small side door you’d never paid attention to before.

It opens with a creak into a cramped storage space filled with old sheet music and velvet curtains, lit by a single flickering light. Before you can ask what he’s up to, he shuts the door behind him, trapping you in the tiny room with him—and then he kisses you.

Lilia’s kisses are playful, but not light. No, no—he kisses like he’s taunting you and loving you all at once. A smirk against your lips, followed by a sudden tug on your collar. He bites just enough to make you gasp and then soothes the sting with a slow, languid kiss that has your spine arching off the wall.

“Mmh… That sound you made,” he whispers against your lips. “Let’s see if I can coax another one.”

Your hands scramble into his hair as he deepens the kiss, rolling his hips just enough to press you into the wall. He groans low and pleased when you react, his gloved hands sliding down your sides, teasing the hem of your shirt, his lips never leaving yours for more than a second.

Everything about him is tease and temptation. He kisses like a sin wrapped in velvet—like a lullaby you don’t want to wake from.

Eventually, he draws back—just barely—his breath brushing over your cheek as he chuckles.

“Well, that certainly chased away the boredom,” he says, clearly pleased with himself. “But now I want more…”

He kisses you again—quick and hard this time—and then winks.

“Better be careful, sweetheart. I may drag you in here again tomorrow. Or the day after. Or both.”

You step out of that storage room a mess—hair disheveled, lips tingling—and Lilia? He just whistles innocently and walks away with a spring in his step.

[dreaming-of-tae]

HAVE TOU CONSIDERED. doing this kiss and make out prompt but flipped? i.e. THEY drag you into a closet/classroom to kiss kiss fall in love? I imagine for some chars. it would be the result of a bad day and for others just ‘cause!.

ANYWAYS. sorry if your requests are overloaded. just. an idea. <3 love your writing!!!! Ty for your service 🙏🙏

Kiss And Makeout *FLIPPED

( ✧ ) ────── boyfriend stories . fluff/romance - gn!reader .

- [𝐜𝐡.] leona . jade . floyd . vil . malleus . lilia

- [𝐩:𝐬] Intense kissing/makeout . Physical intimacy (non-explicit) . Sudden physical contact/grabbing . Slight unpredictability (Floyd being Floyd) . Mild dominance/control . Reader being pinned against a wall briefly . Slight possessiveness . Teasing/biting .

Note: Guys I know the tags are misleading into it being borderline 'smut' but I PROMISE it's just suggestive 🙏 . Also I kinda cooked with this one 😍

Leona Kingscholar

The sun’s slanting low across the Savannaclaw dorm courtyard, casting long shadows that stretch like sleepy lions. You're on your way to the library, arms full of notes for a shared class—when a familiar, rough hand loops around your wrist from behind.

"Oi," Leona drawls, already half-lidded, already smirking. “Ditch whatever you’re doing.”

Before you can argue—he’s pulling you along, not with urgency, but with that effortless kind of command only he seems to exude. You try to complain, maybe mention that you’ve got work to do, but his reply is a chuckle as dry and warm as the desert wind.

You end up in an unused classroom—somewhere tucked behind the alchemy wing, the door creaking faintly shut behind him as dust motes swirl in the light. The desks are all pushed to the back, stacked like towers of forgotten effort, and Leona leans against one, dragging you in with a lazy tug around your waist.

“You’ve been ignoring me,” he accuses, voice low and thick, like he’s half-asleep—but his golden eyes are very, very awake.

"I was studying," you breathe, barely getting the words out before he pulls you in the rest of the way.

His mouth finds yours with that slow-burning hunger that always leaves your knees weak. He kisses like he fights—possessive, measured, and way too confident. His hand slides up your back, keeping you flush against him, as if he’s daring you to try pulling away. You can taste the heat of the afternoon sun still clinging to his skin, that wild-sand scent of him curling around your senses.

Leona kisses like it’s something he deserves. Like you’re a prize he’s claimed and won’t be returning. He pulls back only to speak against your lips.

"You smell like ink and stress. I'm fixing that."

The makeout drags on—longer than you should allow. One of your hands ends up tangled in his hair, the other fisted in the fabric of his uniform coat. He doesn’t stop until you’re breathless, dazed, lips tingling.

When he finally lets you go, he’s got that smug grin, even as his thumb brushes your lower lip. “There. Now you’ve got something better to think about than test scores.”

You try to glare at him, but your heart’s still beating way too loud in your ears.

And Leona? He just stretches and yawns like this was all part of his nap schedule.

Jade Leech

It starts off innocently enough. You’re helping Jade carry potion ingredients to one of the smaller prep rooms near Octavinelle—some obscure mushroom extracts and strange marine flora with names you can't even pronounce. The corridor is damp and quiet, the kind of silence that feels like it’s listening.

Jade says something—soft, quiet, amused—as he opens the storage room. His eyes linger on you for a second too long, and that’s when you should’ve known. There’s something in the glint of his gaze, the way his smile stretches a touch too wide, his fingers brushing yours as he takes the last jar from your hands.

Then, click. The door closes behind you.

“Jade?” you ask, blinking in the dim glow of the potion room’s crystal lights.

His hands are on your waist in the next breath, fingers curling like vines. “Forgive me,” he says, voice smooth and deadly charming. “But I’ve been thinking about kissing you since this morning’s lecture.”

He tilts his head, watching your reaction with those sharp, mismatched eyes. You barely get out a sound before he leans in—and then his mouth is on yours, cool and commanding. Jade kisses with precision. Like he’s studied every reaction you’ve ever had, and now he’s crafting the perfect blend of teasing and temptation.

One hand stays on your lower back, the other rises to cradle your jaw as he deepens the kiss, drawing you further into him like the tide. There’s something unnerving about how calm he remains—even as his lips part yours, even as your breath hitches and your knees threaten to give way.

He chuckles softly against your mouth.

“Your heartbeat is quite fast,” he whispers, brushing his lips along the corner of your mouth, then to your neck. “Are you afraid? Or simply excited?”

You can’t answer—not with your brain fogged by the taste of him, the feel of his hands, the delicious chill of his voice echoing in your ear. The room smells faintly of sea-salt and mushrooms, and something deeply Jade—subtle, spiced, unsettling in the most intoxicating way.

Eventually, when he pulls back, your lips feel swollen and your thoughts scattered.

“You’re such a curious creature,” he murmurs, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes. “I should study you more often.”

You stumble out of that room later looking like you just got hit by a spell—and Jade? He walks out perfectly composed, with that same unnervingly polite smile on his face. Like he didn’t just wreck your entire nervous system with his mouth.

Floyd Leech

The day is too normal. You can feel it in the air—like the calm before one of Floyd’s storms.

You’re just walking past the Octavinelle hallway, when you feel arms suddenly wrap around your shoulders from behind—too fast, too tight, too Floyd.

“Shrimpyyyyyy~!” he sings against your ear, his voice stretching like taffy. “There you are~!”

You barely have time to react before he’s pulling you sideways—off course, off balance, and into some small, cramped janitor’s closet. It smells like cleaning supplies and old sea salt, and Floyd's eyes gleam in the dark like a predator who’s just cornered something tasty.

“Floyd, what are you doing—?”

“Shhhh,” he hums, pressing a finger to your lips. “I was bored.”

The door clicks shut behind him. You're trapped between the wall and Floyd’s looming grin.

“But now I’ve got you, and you’re way more fun.”

His hands are already on your waist, sliding under your jacket like he owns every inch of your skin. His lips crash into yours like a riptide—wild and messy and Floyd. There’s no rhythm, no pause, just overwhelming sensation. Teeth nip at your bottom lip. A low growl of amusement vibrates in his chest when you gasp.

He pulls back just an inch, enough to look at your kiss-swollen lips and flushed face. “Aww, lookit you,” he coos, voice syrupy and sharp. “All red like a little shrimp. Cute.”

You barely have time to reply before he's kissing you again, harder this time, like he’s trying to claim the breath from your lungs. The tight space only makes it hotter—his body pressed up against yours, nowhere to escape, nothing to focus on but the wild way he kisses you like he might eat you and like he might never stop.

At some point, his hat falls off, and your shirt is rumpled, and there’s laughter—his and yours—mingling between kisses. Floyd stops only when he feels like it, which means you’re left dazed and breathless while he sways lazily, totally unbothered.

“Mmm. You’re fun. Let’s do this again tomorrow, kay?”

He presses a soft, playful kiss to your cheek before throwing open the closet door like you weren’t just making out like lovesick criminals.

You’re pretty sure you’re not getting anything productive done today.

Vil Schoenheit

It happens during a late-night rehearsal.

Vil’s been directing the stage club with sharp eyes and sharper critique, and you’ve been running lines off to the side, helping, watching, admiring. He’s in his element—glowing even under harsh fluorescent lights, every motion graceful and deliberate. But every now and then, his gaze flicks toward you. Not long. Just a glance. A pause.

When the rehearsal ends and the others file out, exhausted and murmuring, Vil’s hand brushes yours as you help him gather props.

"You," he says, not even looking at you—just feeling you there. “With me.”

You blink, confused, but follow him anyway, up toward the costume closet at the back of the auditorium. The second the door clicks shut, he turns sharply, and suddenly, the air is very different.

“You’ve been distracting me all night,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Do you enjoy driving me to the edge of my focus?”

“Vil—”

His name barely leaves your lips before he kisses you—hard, precise, intentional. There’s no hesitation, no test run. His mouth is demanding, confident, and so, so good. His fingers slip under your jaw, tilting your head just so, like he’s posing you for a photo—only this time, the only thing he’s interested in perfecting is the sound of your breath catching under him.

You make a small sound in the back of your throat and he hums approvingly.

“Pretty,” he says against your lips, voice like silk with thorns. “But I want more.”

You gasp when he kisses you again, this time deeper—pressing you gently but firmly against the back wall, surrounded by velvet capes and half-hung feather boas. His scent—rosewater, powder, and something earthy—completely envelopes you, and all you can think is that this is Vil, and he’s kissing you like he’s crafting a masterpiece.

When he finally pulls back, your lipstick’s smudged (if you had any on) and your knees are weak. He brushes your hair back into place with meticulous fingers and studies your flushed face with faint amusement.

“Tch,” he clicks his tongue, smoothing the collar of your shirt. “You’re an absolute mess. Honestly.”

But there’s a light in his eyes—a smug satisfaction—and before you can respond, he kisses you again, slow and teasing this time, like a reward.

As you leave the closet, he doesn’t hide the slight smug curve of his lips.

“You’ll be thinking about this all night,” he murmurs—and he's right.

Malleus Draconia

It starts with a storm. Of course it does.

You're walking across campus in the early evening, books tucked under your arm, clouds brooding overhead like they’ve been watching you. The wind picks up suddenly, ruffling your hair—and before you can even think of running for cover, a familiar voice calls your name.

You turn, and Malleus is already there.

There’s always something otherworldly about the way he appears—silent, graceful, like a dream blooming out of mist. “You're walking alone,” he says, like it's a crime. “Come. You'll catch cold.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to reply before he gently takes your wrist and leads you to a tucked-away building near the edge of campus—a half-forgotten stone structure, unused, echoing with the scent of dust and damp air. He pushes open the creaking door to a tiny, empty classroom. The windows rattle as thunder rolls in the distance.

“You shouldn’t wander in the storm,” he murmurs, voice deep and rich with ancient cadence. “Something might take you.”

And then he steps closer—like the storm outside is leaking into the room through his presence. He watches you carefully, like he's weighing the moment, deciding something. His hand lifts—long fingers tracing the edge of your jaw so lightly it gives you chills.

“I’ve been… yearning,” he confesses softly, the word hanging in the space like lightning just before it strikes. “May I…?”

You don’t have time to respond before he kisses you.

Malleus kisses with reverence—slow, deliberate, almost ceremonial. Like he’s not just kissing you—he’s binding you, like this moment is a spell only you and he will remember. His lips are cool at first, but warmth builds quickly, rushing into your chest as his hand slips around your waist to draw you closer.

He holds you like something precious—untouchable to the rest of the world. One hand pressed flat against the small of your back, the other cradling your face like he’s afraid you might vanish. His mouth moves against yours with growing intensity, every brush and sigh and pull deepening into something devastating.

The thunder cracks again, louder now.

“You’re trembling,” he whispers against your lips.

“No, I’m—” But you are. Whether it’s from him or the kiss or the storm, you’re not sure.

He leans in again, his forehead resting against yours.

“If I could… I would steal away time itself to keep us like this,” he murmurs, voice thick with emotion that you can feel in his chest.

And in that moment, as lightning streaks across the sky outside the window, you almost believe he could.

Lilia Vanrouge

It happens so suddenly—because that’s just how Lilia is.

One second, you’re sitting together in the music room, flipping through a book while he plays idle chords on the piano. His voice is humming softly to the melody, his eyes flicking toward you now and then with a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You feel it building—the way his gaze lingers longer, the way his fingers slow on the keys.

Then he stops playing entirely, shuts the piano lid, and smirks.

“Hmm… I think I’ve been very patient today.”

You blink. “Patient for what?”

“Oh? You haven’t noticed?” His grin sharpens like a blade. “How disappointing.”

He stands, strides across the room in two steps, and loops his arms around you before you can react. You let out a soft laugh, but he’s already hoisting you up and carrying you—not out of the room, no, but across to a small side door you’d never paid attention to before.

It opens with a creak into a cramped storage space filled with old sheet music and velvet curtains, lit by a single flickering light. Before you can ask what he’s up to, he shuts the door behind him, trapping you in the tiny room with him—and then he kisses you.

Lilia’s kisses are playful, but not light. No, no—he kisses like he’s taunting you and loving you all at once. A smirk against your lips, followed by a sudden tug on your collar. He bites just enough to make you gasp and then soothes the sting with a slow, languid kiss that has your spine arching off the wall.

“Mmh… That sound you made,” he whispers against your lips. “Let’s see if I can coax another one.”

Your hands scramble into his hair as he deepens the kiss, rolling his hips just enough to press you into the wall. He groans low and pleased when you react, his gloved hands sliding down your sides, teasing the hem of your shirt, his lips never leaving yours for more than a second.

Everything about him is tease and temptation. He kisses like a sin wrapped in velvet—like a lullaby you don’t want to wake from.

Eventually, he draws back—just barely—his breath brushing over your cheek as he chuckles.

“Well, that certainly chased away the boredom,” he says, clearly pleased with himself. “But now I want more…”

He kisses you again—quick and hard this time—and then winks.

“Better be careful, sweetheart. I may drag you in here again tomorrow. Or the day after. Or both.”

You step out of that storage room a mess—hair disheveled, lips tingling—and Lilia? He just whistles innocently and walks away with a spring in his step.